


Howl at the Moon

by canis_lupus



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Animagus, HP: EWE, M/M, Multi, Threesome - M/M/M, Timothy the Kneazle, Werewolf!Draco, Werewolves, creature!fic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-11-22
Updated: 2012-06-28
Packaged: 2018-01-12 14:22:53
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 37,755
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1188480
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/canis_lupus/pseuds/canis_lupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's not that Harry doesn't love his job... but sometimes, it leads him to the oddest places, and stumbling across Draco Malfoy's newest, darkest secret was not what he expected from an investigation at Malfoy Manor. Of course, that's the least of it.<br/>Written for the <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/hp_creatures/">hp_creatures</a> <a href="http://community.livejournal.com/hp_creatures/tag/2010%20hcf%20submissions">2010 Halloween Fest</a></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

"Potter."  
Harry looked up just in time to remove his inkwell before a fat folder landed on his desk, spilling a few notes and photographs out onto the paperwork he'd been doing. He raised a questioning eyebrow at Head Auror Robarts, who stood in front of his desk, scowling and arms crossed now that he had deposited the folder in front of Harry's nose. After six years of working with the man, Harry still had no idea whether the man hated him or whether he just had a naturally grumpy disposition. Possibly, Robarts didn't give a shit one way or the other.  
"Yes, Sir?" He kept his tone even, respectful, neutral, a skill that certainly didn't come easy to him, but, hey, he had a lifetime's worth of practise.  
Robarts nodded at the folder. "Your new case. Give it a look once you've finished with the paperwork. I expect you out there tomorrow."  
Harry carefully put his inkwell down and picked up the folder. It was bulging, and his eyebrow rose as he read the memo stuck to the first loose sheath of parchment.  
"Malfoy Manor?" he asked, nonplussed and somewhat sceptical. "You're assigning me to the yearly Manor search?"  
"Yes, Potter, that's what I'm doing." Again, Harry couldn't tell whether Robarts thought him a moron and was pulling out the sarcasm, or whether he was just stating a fact. "Might be nothing, but a few things in the last few months are just not quite adding up. So you're going to use the yearly search Malfoy's probation requires to see whether everything's as it should be or whether our friend is back to his old tricks."  
"Yes, Sir. What are these things that aren't adding up?" Sure, he could read the file, but that would take hours.  
Robarts shrugged, the scowl not leaving his face. "About three months ago, there was a breach of the Ministry wards on the property. When the night shift got there, they only found Malfoy senior, who said he'd taken out an Aethonan for a ride and not realized how far out he was until he accidentally breached the wards. The story seems to check out, but still... And Malfoy, junior that is, hasn't been seen for weeks."  
"He's not exactly Mr. Social since the war, Draco Malfoy," Harry pointed out.  
"Sure," Robarts agreed. "Still, he's seen in Diagon Alley every now and then, selling his potions or getting ingredients. We keep track of what he's buying and selling, of course, and it's been longer than usual that he's showed his face. And what was his father doing out flying a horse in the middle of the night? And he paid his fine like a fine, upstanding citizen, and we all know Lucius Malfoy is a lot of things, but not that. He should've been whinging and complaining and putting on the airs, should've made us work for it, but he just paid up, docile as you please."  
Harry gave a frown of his own and flipped through a few pages of the file. That _was_ odd. Six years on the job, and he had heard it all, the way people insisted that it wasn't _their_ fault, they didn't really _mean_ to, and certainly, the law could make an exception for them. And in his experience, the pure bloods were the worst of the lot, and if Lucius Malfoy knew one thing, it was how to do outraged indignation.  
"I'll be there tomorrow," Harry informed Robarts. "Do I need to inform anyone else?"  
Robarts started to remove himself from Harry's cubicle. "Just that partner of yours. Williamson and Kelly are already briefed."  
"Yes, Sir. Uh, wait," he called just as Robarts was about to turn down the aisle. "Who's the assigned curse-breaker this year?"  
Robarts gave him a smirk over one shoulder, a possibly-sardonic eyebrow tilted at Harry.  
"That'd be your room mate, Potter. I'm sure you can manage to coordinate."  
With that, he left Harry blinking after the top of his head until it vanished behind the cubicle walls.  
Harry looked down at the open folder in his hands for a moment, then he closed it and set it aside, sweeping the spilled contents back into it. First, he had to figure out how to best word this report to impress on the powers that be that the death of Gaius Weatherby, Dark Wizard with aspirations at basilisk breeding, really had been an unfortunate accident. Well, it _had_ been! It wasn't any fault of Harry's that the new basilisk had chosen the moment when Harry had the guy finally pinned down on the floor to hatch and promptly executed his would-be owner with the first gaze of his newborn eyes... Harry'd killed the little bugger immediately, and searched the house top to bottom and back to front to make sure that that was the _only_ basilisk egg in evidence, but Mr Weatherby was still quite dead, and that sort of thing always looked bad in the report.  
Harry ran a frustrated hand through his hair, and then put his quill to the parchment and just wrote it down like it happened, nice and neutral. If there was an investigation, well, there'd be an investigation.

Harry managed, for once, to finish his shift on time after he'd handed in his report and a box of squashed baby Basilisk (so maybe stepping on the thing hadn't exactly been the most _elegant_ method of execution, but it had been pure reflex, and it'd done the trick), and spent the afternoon reviewing the voluminous Malfoy file. Despite its size, it made for surprisingly boring reading. Lucius kept to the terms of his house arrest aside from a few minor infractions, Narcissa gave parties for those of her associates that still deigned to come, and Draco brewed and sold potions, all of which seemed to be legal and above-board.  
Harry did a round through Diagon Alley, picking up groceries, and arrived at his doorstep at the civilized hour of six pm. He went up the narrow, rickety old staircase, the grocery bags bopping after him like obedient ducklings.  
"I'm home," he called and poked his head into the living room.  
"Hey, Harry," Bill greeted from his place sprawled along the length of the couch. He looked up from his book and made a show of consulting his wrist watch. "You're actually on time!"  
Harry rolled his eyes. "So are you. Will wonders never cease?"  
Bill chuckled and Harry moved off into the kitchen to put his groceries away and get dinner started. He left the door open, and chatted away with Bill as he spelled the potatoes out of their skins and set them to boiling. He retrieved three steaks from the cooling cupboard where they had been marinating since the morning and set them aside to warm up while he got started on the vegetables.  
Bill thought the story about Weatherby's unfortunate demise hilarious, and in turn amused Harry with his own account of his day's work. It seemed he had finally figured out the key to breaking a curse on a beautiful jade necklace Gringotts had received to pay off a family's debt. As it turned out, the piece had originated in Japan, and to break the curse, a virgin wearing a wedding kimono was required to sing a certain song while wearing the necklace. Of course, the song was in Japanese, and the bank was sadly out of Japanese-speaking virgins (and wedding kimonos), so the goblins would need to pull some strings. But since it was already early afternoon by the time Bill had figured this out, the time difference meant that it was too late to contact anyone on the other side of the world, and the final dissolution of the curse would have to wait until the next day.  
They sat down to dinner at their battered old kitchen table, a gift from their landlady, and Harry served himself a generous portion of the mashed potatoes and the vegetables while Bill started in on the first of his two very rare steaks.  
"So Robarts assigned me to the Malfoy Manor search today," Harry said casually once he had made a considerable inroad on his own steak and the mashed potatoes and vegetables. Bill looked up from his second steak. "Really? You? To the search? Why would he do that?"  
Harry shrugged. "Nothing definite. Just, you know..." He waved his fork in a vague circle. "A bit of a hunch, maybe."  
Bill quirked an interested eyebrow, so Harry elaborated on the little episode three months earlier with the wards. Bill made a thoughtful noise while he chewed a bite of steak.  
"Well, won't they just be thrilled?" he asked after he'd swallowed (Bill, Harry had long since found out, had much better manners than Ron), voice amused. "A Weasley and the Boy Who Lived himself in their house, to poke their noses into every corner. And not just any Weasley, but the one with the werewolf scars, right at the full moon, too."  
Harry couldn't help but grin.  
"And then there's Dennis, too. Good old Lucius is going to have a cow," he observed, and then they both dissolved into laughter.  
"It's going to be interesting to work a case with you, though," Bill observed once they had calmed down again. "Never done that before."  
"That's true. Might not be much of a case to work there, of course."  
Bill shrugged. "Can't say I'd mind a boring, straight-forward job for once. Maybe we'll have some more opportunities to go home on time."  
Harry moaned in agreement and slumped back in his chair. "Seriously, I love my job, but sometimes I wonder what the hell I was thinking. At some point, I'm going to have so much over-time, the Ministry's either going to have to make me a millionaire, or they'll have to do without me for an extended period of time."  
"You already _are_ a millionaire," Bill pointed out reasonably.  
Harry glared half-heartedly. "Oh, shut up. You know what I mean."  
"I certainly do," Bill agreed. "But maybe it's just us. Ron usually seems to make it on time, from what I hear."  
"Well, Ron's lazy," Harry pointed out dryly. "Besides, he's got the scariest wife ever. He can just use her as an excuse."  
Bill chuckled. "Mean, Harry."  
"But true," he asserted ruthlessly.  
"Yeah, true," Bill allowed. He mopped up the last bit of his gravy and his own modest helping of mashed potatoes and leaned back with a satisfied sigh. "My little brother does have his faults. How are you two getting on these days?"  
Harry grimaced. "I'm not sure. Mostly, we're not, I think. I mean, we just don't talk, you know? I'm pretty sure he avoids me whenever he can, and when we do run into each other, it's usually just a nod of acknowledgement. A bit of painfully awkward small-talk, if it absolutely can't be helped." Harry heaved a deep, mournful sigh. "I actually wish we were fighting, you know? I wish he'd just shout and rant and be mad at me. I can deal with that. I _know_ how to deal with that. But this... weird passive-aggressive politeness? I have no idea what to do about that. It's not just that he's uncomfortable around me, though he _is_. It's that he hasn't forgiven me about Ginny, I'm sure."  
" _She_ isn't mad at you," Bill said pointedly.  
Harry snorted. "She's the one who practically kicked me out of the closet with a well-deserved boot to the arse! She knew I was gay before I did!"  
Bill laughed softly. "That's our little Ginny. She's got more in common with the twins than anyone else in the family."  
"Yeah," Harry answered ruefully. "If only she was a guy, I'd love her forever."  
Bill laughed at that. "You're all right, Harry. It'll work out, you'll see."  
Harry raised an eyebrow at the man across the table from him. "I would say 'Easy for you to say', but then you're in just the same mess I am. God, you really think we'll ever be able to attend another Weasley family dinner that's not as painful as these last two Christmases?"  
Bill moaned and passed a weary hand over his face. "I don't know, Harry. I really don't." He heaved a deep sigh. "I always knew it'd be difficult. There's a reason I waited so damn long to come out. Maybe it would've been better if I'd done it sooner. Maybe it'd been easier on Mum and Dad, hell, on everyone if they'd known right from the start. They'd have had more time to get used to the thought, and Mum wouldn't have spent so much time planning on the grand kids I would one day give her, and by the time you came around with your announcement, it wouldn't have been something so new..."  
"Or maybe Molly would've flipped her lid even earlier, you would've been exiled from the family dinners for even longer, and I wouldn't have dared to come out in the first place."  
"Mum didn't 'flip her lid'," Bill disagreed with a small frown.  
"Well, she did. A little. There was crying. And remonstrations and a little bit of shouting. I distinctly remember that. Even if I was so scared that I don't remember a word of what was said, or what I said, for that matter..."  
"Well, first Mum was urging you none too subtly about getting back together with Ginny, until Ginny had enough. She did that eye roll of hers, and then she said: 'Mum, I will not be getting back together with Harry, ever. Go on, Harry, tell her!' and then you said, ever so politely, 'I'm sorry, Molly, but I'm gay,' just as if you'd told her you were out of sugar." He chuckled again, just a little. "If you were scared, you sure didn't look it, and actually, it was really quite funny. Maybe one day we can all have a good laugh about it, if everyone manages to get over themselves."  
"Yeah, maybe," Harry agreed doubtfully. He shuddered. "That's two weeks of my life I'm glad are over with. And I am kind of sorry to drag you out of the closet with me, so to speak. I did, and do, appreciate the support, you know that, right?."  
Bill waved him off. "Please. It was my decision. I just couldn't stand by any more and listen, and pretend the topic didn't concern me. Ron was being a prat, the twins thought it was all one big joke, Dad was confused, and Mum... I guess you're right, she did flip her lid a little. She took it so _personally_. Like you'd turned yourself gay just to hurt the family. Seriously, Ginny was the only one acting like a reasonable adult. So I spoke up, and then everyone stared at me and asked me why I would do that, as if it was unheard of, and then..." He shrugged. "And then I decided, the hell with it, I didn't want to hide anymore. It would've been too close to lying, and I just didn't want to be that pathetic."  
"And here we are, living in exile from the family..." Harry nodded gravely.  
Bill snorted. "We're not in _exile_ , you little prat. It's not like they chase us off the property with blazing wands! And I'm living with you because it suits us both, not because I have no other choice."  
Harry laughed. "Okay, okay, so it's more the huge helpings of awkwardness that come with every family dinner that keep us away instead of any homicidal urges on the part of our family. Though I wouldn't put it past Ron to try and slip me some sort of potion to de-gay me..."  
Bill looked thoughtful, and a little disturbed. "Truthfully, I wouldn't be surprised..." He shook his head. "He'll get over it, eventually."  
"Yeah, maybe once he gets it through his head that I never had, and never will have, any designs on his body." Harry pulled a face. " _Yuck_. I think I just grossed myself out."  
"Not interested in redheads, are you?" Bill asked, a small, teasing smile in his voice.  
"It's not to do with redheads or not. It's _Ron_. He's like my brother!"  
"Oh, so you _are_ interested in redheads?" Bill prodded, now definitely teasing.  
Harry gave him a speculative glance. "Well... Charlie is quite hot, wouldn't you say? I wouldn't kick _him_ out of bed..."  
Bill sat up straight with a grimace. "Okay, now that's _my_ brother you're talking about! My _little_ brother!"  
"They're all your little brother," Harry pointed out. Bill rolled his eyes at him.  
"Well, yeah, but he's _Charlie_." He pulled another grimace, then Harry watched as a thoughtful, almost sad look fell over his face.  
"You miss him, don't you?" he asked softly after a moment of silence, all teasing gone from his voice.  
Bill sighed. "Yes. Yes, I do. He was... I think he was always the person I was closest to, in the family and out of it. He's my friend almost as much as he's my brother. And I get that it hit him hard. Not so much me being gay, but me keeping such a big secret from him for so long. I _get_ that. But I still wish he'd get over it and talk to me again."  
"Well... I'm sure he'll come around before Ron does," Harry said, trying to cheer Bill up. "It's true, I don't really know Charlie all that well, actually, but I do know that he's more reasonable than Ron. Less 'little brother' syndrome."  
"'Little brother' syndrome?" Bill asked sceptically, but apparently at least a little cheered up.  
"Well, yeah, you know, where he feels inadequate because everyone has done everything and had everything before he did. It's what I call his 'little brother' syndrome in my head. I mean, sure, I get it, being the youngest brother of six must have its own problems and challenges, but seriously... sometimes he just doesn't appreciate what he has."  
Bill gave him a small, slightly odd smile. Harry blinked at him in puzzlement. It was fond, and maybe a little indulgent, and Harry really had no idea what he'd said to make Bill smile at him like that.  
"You really would trade every knut in your vault and every ounce of fame for a chance to grow up in a family like Ron did, wouldn't you?"  
"In a heartbeat," Harry answered, nonplussed. Why was that a reason for Bill to smile at him like that? Bill, however, kept smiling as he got up from the table, and he was still smiling as he reached out to ruffle Harry's hair for a moment before he started gathering their dirty dishes. Harry stared after his back as he turned to the sink and unloaded them, conjuring steaming water and charming the brush to start scrubbing. Harry smoothed his hand over his hair (not that it would have any visible effect), confused. That... was a rather odd gesture. It was so... affectionate, maybe something Bill would do with one of his brothers. That wasn't the way he and Harry usually interacted. They were room mates, and good friends, and they were comfortable with each other, but not in a way that normally involved much physical contact. Oh, well. It wasn't that Harry minded, even if he didn't understand it. But he often didn't understand the way in which people interacted, especially when it came to touching. It was probably only him who found something odd that everyone else would consider normal.  
A soft knocking on the kitchen window startled him out of his thoughts, and he rose to grab a bowl and a can of kneazle food out of the cupboard as Bill reached over the sink to unlatch one sash of their kitchen window. Timothy slunk in, winding his way sinuously along the edge of the sink, and then jumped down to primly sit at Harry's feet, staring up at him with big, golden eyes in expectation.  
Harry chuckled and crouched down obediently to place the full bowl in front of his paws. Unable to resist, he reached out to briefly scratch behind one large, pointy ear. Timothy gave a long, slow blink of approval and a short purr, then dismissed him with a duck of the head and buried his little mouth in the food.  
"Evening to you, too, Tim-Tim," Bill said, amusement thick in his voice, leaning against the kitchen counter with a broad grin while the dishes washed themselves when Harry looked up at him. Timothy merely tilted one ear a fraction in Bill's direction by way of acknowledgement, and then swivelled it back around to pay full attention to his food. Harry sat down on the floor next to the animal, back braced against the cupboards under the counter and one leg stretched out, the other bent at the knee so he could rest his arms on it, and watched Timothy devour his food with a probably silly smile on his face. He shook his head at himself and looked up at Bill again, rueful.  
"You don't have to say anything, I know the little monster has me wrapped around his paw."  
Bill smirked. "He most certainly does. He knows exactly how to use his looks to turn you into a little puddle of goo. Though he is an exceptionally handsome fellow," he allowed, flicking a look at the kneazle crouching over his food. "Knows it, too, the little bugger."  
"That he is," Harry agreed. Timothy's fur was a tawny-golden colour, but his toes were white, and black boots covered the lower part of his legs, which melted into spots that climbed up the outside of his legs to merge into irregular black patches on his shoulders and sides, broad, broken stripes that finally converged to a solid black line along his spine. His leonine tail was banded with perfectly even circles of black, and the tuft on the end was black as well, but the very tip was white, as if he'd dipped it into a can of paint. His chin, chest and stomach were a snowy-white, his nose black, and his big golden eyes all the more striking for the black markings around them, just as if he were wearing make-up. He had a few more tabby-like markings along his cheeks and on his forehead, and the backs of his large ears were black, with one white spot each at the base.  
Timothy, as usual, finished his food in record time, licked the bowl clean of even the tiniest left-over scrap, stood up, stretched, and jumped into Harry's lap to curl up into a purring pile of soft fur.  
"Spoiled," Harry murmured at him. "You're so spoiled, baby. You know that, right?"  
Timothy gave an especially loud purr, planted his chin on Harry's thigh, closed his eyes and let his ears droop sideways for optimal scratching access. Harry, as always, obliged. Truthfully, he loved the damn animal so much it was probably ridiculous. Timothy really did have him well and truly wrapped around his dainty white paw.  
After he lost Hedwig, Harry hadn't really felt like getting another pet. Hedwig had been with him through so much, had been a friend for him when no one else could be, had been, in a way, a symbol for all the good things he'd found when he'd discovered the Wizarding world, that he just couldn't conceive of filling that empty spot with another animal. Timothy had had other ideas.  
In true kneazle-fashion, he had picked Harry, not the other way around. He'd followed Harry home from Knockturn Alley one night, after Harry had (fruitlessly) followed the trail of the Dark wizard he was after at the time there. Harry, at first, hadn't even noticed he'd picked up a stray. He was well into Diagon Alley, half-way home, when he noticed the little shadow quietly slinking along behind him. He'd tried to ignore the animal, had walked on, but when he turned around again, it was still there. He'd tried to chase it away, but it had just backed up a few cautious steps, and when he moved on and looked back the next time, it was still there, just a few metres behind him. Harry had finally arrived home, and looked back one last time after he opened the door, and there it was, standing in the street, looking up at him. Harry had steeled his heart, closed the door behind him, and gone up, determined to forget about the little creature.  
When he left the house to go to work the next morning, it was waiting for him on the doorstep, and when he came back home, it was still there. Harry just had no defences against that much determination, and so, when he opened the door this time, he stepped in and held it open in invitation, even though it was possibly the sorriest, ugliest creature he had ever laid eyes on: thin as a rail, mangy, fur dirty and matted where it wasn't missing in the first place, and the smell... But before he could change his mind, the animal whizzed by him and proceeded him up the steps as if it knew exactly where to go, and Harry was left to follow. Bill had given him a look that clearly told him he was being a soft-hearted moron when he'd seen Harry's new companion, but Harry could just shrug helplessly. Then they'd taken the filthy bundle into the bathroom, and, after much careful washing of what they thought a surprisingly docile cat, found a pure-bred kneazle under all the dirt who endured the water and towelling with dignity. Harry had run down the steps again to duck out the door and into the shop-entrance of the Magical Menagerie, and quizzed their landlady about the care of under-fed, stray kneazles. Sometimes it was handy to live above a pet shop. He returned upstairs twenty minutes later with a few cans of kneazle food, a pot of salve for the bald patches, and a crash course in kneazle behaviour and keeping, as well as the advice that "the kneazle picks the wizard, Mr Potter. Best get used to the idea of the little fellow around. Don't worry, it's quite an honour if a kneazle takes a liking to you. It'll be an excellent pet, and you'll always know who you can trust with a kneazle around. Excellent judges of character, kneazles. Veritably sneakoscopes on legs, they are."  
So Harry named his new friend Timothy, nursed him back to health, and got himself a Ministry licence for keeping a kneazle. And he certainly didn't regret it a bit, since Timothy really was great company, and, fed and cared for, garnered many admiring looks and comments around Diagon Alley when he deigned to accompany Harry shopping.  
They all eventually spent a quiet, domestic evening on the couch, reading while they listened to the Wireless, and Harry finally went to bed fairly early, Timothy in his arms, since it wouldn't do to face Malfoys in anything but prime condition. He fell asleep wondering what it would be like to come face to face with Draco Malfoy again. He hadn't seen the other man in years, hadn't really thought of him much, but he _was_ sort of curious to see what changes the end of the war had wrought on his once-nemesis.  



	2. Chapter 2

Punctually at nine the next morning, Bill and Harry Apparated in in front of the Manor gates. It was very strange to go to work together, as it were, and Harry self-consciously tugged at the front of his Auror robes even though they were already perfectly settled.  
"Hiya, Harry!" Dennis greeted him, as always, brightly, beaming and brimming with enthusiasm. "Hi, Mr Weasley!"  
Bill blinked, and then gave a snort that was half amusement and half horror. "Please, call me Bill. 'Mr Weasley' is my father."  
"Sure, Bill! I'm Dennis Creevey, Harry's partner. You can call me Dennis!" He reached out a hand, and Bill shook it, looking as bemused and overwhelmed as people usually did with Dennis' sheer enthusiasm. To be entirely honest, when Robarts had assigned freshly-trained Auror Creevey to Harry to mentor, Harry had once more wondered whether the man hated him and was actively trying to drive him to a nervous break-down. The assignment was unusual enough, since Harry had been working alone, without a mentor himself, for barely a year, and there were plenty of older, more experienced Aurors available to show one excitable kid the ropes. In addition, Harry's own mentoring hadn't exactly been traditional, either. He'd been shuffled from Auror to Auror, never quite managing to make that easy connection he had seen with others who had gone through training with him, never quite working smoothly. It had been a problem that wasn't unique to him, in fact, it had afflicted most of those who were in the DA and in the final battle, all of whom had absolved their training in two rather than the normal three years, all of whom had seen too much, done too much, to take well to the sometimes condescending and indulgent treatment from their mentors. All of them were young, and eager, and knew just enough to get themselves into trouble, but didn't know enough to be wise enough to stay out of trouble, and Harry, in hindsight, knew he was the worst of the lot. Oh, he didn't brag and take easy offence like Ron tended to do, but he was just too damn stubborn in a quiet sort of way when he thought he knew best, and none of his mentors had quite found the right touch to handle him comfortably. So he was bounced from mentor to mentor and tried his best to work well with them, and learned a little from each of them until he was deemed safe to be let out alone. And then Robarts dumped little Dennis Creevey on him. Dennis, of course, was pleased as punch to be working with Harry. And by now, Harry was suspecting that it was actually a compliment, that Robarts really did think him capable and experienced enough to mentor a young Auror himself. And Dennis... well, Harry had seen more than one suspect make the same mistake he had, and underestimate the young man. Hell, possibly the two of them together weren't quite fair to let loose on the criminal population. They were the shortest Auror team in the MLE, and they were both ridiculously young. At least Harry had his reputation as the Boy Who Lived, but he had noticed how people quickly lost their initial awe (or weariness, depending on their occupation), since, he had also noticed, he was usually far more polite than the average Auror.  
He just couldn't help it. Whenever he met strangers he fell back on the one thing Aunt Petunia had actually managed to drill into him: manners. Friends and enemies were a different thing, but whenever he was unsure of his position in relation to someone else, he fell back on politeness. And people invariably let his short, slim stature, and probably the glasses, fool them into the assumption that he wasn't all he was cracked up to be, after all.  
Add Dennis, whose unquenchable cheer and the way he practically vibrated with eager energy led people to assume he was either painfully naive or possibly retarded, and who was even shorter and slighter than Harry, with his unassuming mousy-brown hair, who couldn't possibly be a threat, and they were probably the furthest from the cliché of gruff, battle-hardened, bad-ass Auror team you could get. Which was really quite unfortunate for Dark wizards. Harry knew for a fact he was one of the best duellers in the department, and he could hold his own in a physical fight much better than most wizards. He had also found that he had very good instincts, that his intuition rarely led him wrong, and that he was probably a bit better at deductive reasoning than the Dursleys' treatment and his school career had led him to assume. And little, unassuming Dennis Creevey could wreak devastation with his wand if he stopped being friendly, was probably the sneakiest, stealthiest mischief maker apart from the Weasley twins Harry knew, and hid a keen eye for details and a razor sharp mind under all that enthusiasm.  
Right now his eyes had flicked up Bill's form ever so quickly while he pumped Bill's hand, and Harry was in no doubt that he would be able to rattle off every item of Bill's clothing, where he kept his wand, and any distinguishing characteristics, if asked.  
They said hello to Kelly and Williamson, who it seemed had worked with Bill before, and then they all started up towards the front doors of Malfoy Manor.

It was Lucius Malfoy himself who answered the door. He held himself so upright he looked as if he'd swallowed an iron rod, and his upper lip didn't seem to move at all as he talked, so stiff was it. It was obvious that he welcomed Aurors and a curse-breaker, some of which were half-bloods, Muggle-borns and slightly lycanthropy-infected, respectively, in his house about as much as a doxy infestation, but these days, he was smart enough to keep his opinions to himself, and they got the search started with minimal fuss. Narcissa only showed herself briefly, pale and cold like an ice statue, gracing them with a nod from the top of the grand central staircase before she glided off to some other part of the Manor, somewhere were they wouldn't disturb her for the time being, presumably. Of Draco Malfoy, there was no sign.

Searching the Manor turned out to be, primarily, tedious. They went about in two teams, checking room after room for Dark artefacts, secret compartments, illegal potions and forbidden books. For the first hour or two, Harry secretly enjoyed getting a look at a lifestyle that was so far from his own, so far from what he'd grown up with, he didn't even know where to begin to describe it. He couldn't even imagine growing up in this place, surrounded by portraits and heavy, dark, old furniture, and so many little things, ornaments and mementos, vases and little sculptures, carvings and all sorts of other knickknack that was probably worth more than Arthur Weasley made in a month, just standing everywhere, deliberate but ignored. There were so many rooms, and a lot of them felt more like a museum than a room in an inhabited house. No, he couldn't imagine what it would be like to consider all this normal. Maybe that was why Draco Malfoy and he had never gotten along. Never before had it hit home so thoroughly that they came, indeed, from two very different worlds.  
However, after a little while his curiosity flagged, all the odds and ends blended into each other, and he understood how Aurors could raid a Dark wizard's home and yet not find conclusive evidence. If Lucius Malfoy was hiding something illegal... well, there was a hell of a lot of space to hide it in, and a hell of a lot of clutter to hide it among.  
Morning turned into noon, and they stopped for half an hour to Apparate to London and have a quick bite at the Leaky Cauldron with the rest of the lunch crowd. Then it was back to the Manor and its many, many rooms and floors. Possibly, Harry thought the Manor was bigger than it actually was because of the overwhelming amount of things to sift through and cast detection charms at, but he would've sworn the thing had at least ten floors and a hundred miles of dim, carpet-covered, portrait-hung hallways. Dennis had joined Kelly and Williamson in the library, a huge room, three floors high, walls covered with bookshelves, all of which housed thousands and thousands of volumes. And they had to check all of them, every shelf, to make sure Lucius hadn't hidden a copy of a banned text between them since the year before. Usually, Kelly confided, it took them at least two full days alone to check the library. With Harry and Bill checking the rooms and the three of them in the library, they hoped to finish this year's inspection in less than the week it usually took.  
A ferocious headache started pounding in Harry's temples as the afternoon dragged on, and his mood was quickly plummeting. There was just too much information, too many objects, too many detection charms and too many damn haughty, sneering Malfoy ancestors glaring at him from their portraits. He worked well with Bill, but their conversation dwindled away as the day wore on. Bill was efficient and competent, cast his own charms and obviously knew what he was doing, but he also became more restless, more tense as the evening, and moon rise, approached. He might not be a true werewolf, didn't change shape, but Bill did feel the effects of the full moon. Mostly, he was hungrier, and had an even stronger preference for very rare meat than usual, but his usually easy-going temper was shorter, too, his patience thinner, his entire demeanour restless and edgy. Harry had long since gotten used to Bill's little idiosyncrasies when it came to the full moon, but today he could've done without the added stress.  
They were walking along another dim corridor on the top floor of the west wing, and Harry was mostly, wishfully, thinking about the end of his shift, when they came face to face with Draco Malfoy.

He stepped out of the door at the end of the corridor, then froze when he caught sight of them.  
He looked terrible.  
For a few moments, Harry could just stare. Draco's hair was longer, the tips brushing his shoulders and framing his face, unwashed and stringy, the ends ragged, not like it was the fashion statement one would expect of a Malfoy but like he was in dire need of a trim but hadn't bothered for a long time. His skin was sickly pale, grey in the dim hallway, his eyes sunken deep into his skull. His upper lip was curling in the beginnings of a sneer, lines bracketing his mouth that made him look ten years older. The black robes he was wearing did nothing to help his appearance, and with a painful, gut-wrenching twist Harry remembered another man with black robes and greasy hair and bitterness like a cloak around his shoulders. He'd never thought that Draco Malfoy could look anything like Severus Snape, but he'd been wrong.  
Malfoy's eyes were locked on them, no, locked on Bill, Harry realized, narrowed and glaring, his fists clenched at his sides, the frayed hems of his robes brushing the trembling backs of his hands, his posture rigid. Bill took half a step back, then straightened up and stepped forward again, feet apart, balanced, stared back without blinking, head tilted forward and chin down. The tableau held, the two of them staring at each other from several feet away down the length of the hallway, for so long that Harry was about to fidget uncomfortably, to break the tension up somehow. Then Draco whirled around with a last glare, stepped back into the room he had just come from, and slammed the door shut.  
Bill relaxed, audibly released a breath in a sigh, and he and Harry exchanged a puzzled glance.  
"What was that all about?" Harry asked, but Bill shook his head with a small frown.  
"No idea," he answered perplexedly, but before Harry could ask more questions about his odd behaviour, Lucius appeared at the top of the stairs, halfway between them and the door Draco had vanished through. He didn't Apparate, but he showed up so suddenly and Harry hadn't heard his steps on the stairs, that he might just as well have for all the warning they had.  
"Please excuse my son," he said. "He is not... feeling well. I would appreciate if you would consent to postpone your search of his rooms for a few hours." The stiff set of his face showed clearly how much the polite words cost him. "He will be occupied in his potions laboratory shortly."  
Harry exchanged a glance with Bill. They didn't have to agree to the request. What if it was a ploy to buy time to hide something they were not supposed to find? However, something in Lucius demeanour didn't fit with that. Something was up, Harry was sure of it. Lucius was far too polite, far too invested in his appearance of cooperation when they all knew that the only reason he was allowing them access at all, was accepting the humiliation of these searches, was because he knew he was getting off lightly, that there was no way to weasel out of it, that it was Azkaban for him otherwise. But it didn't seem to be some sort of illegal activity that Lucius was hiding. He would be, Harry was certain, far smoother if that was the case. It had to be something else. Besides, while it was perfectly feasible that Lucius had something hidden in his son's room, _Draco_ wasn't the one they were investigating. He'd been acquitted of all charges after the war (on Harry's testimony, no less), and was, legally speaking, an upstanding citizen of Wizarding Britain with all his civil rights intact.  
Harry eventually shrugged. "Of course, I don't see why not. We'll continue downstairs for the time being."  
He moved towards the stairs, and Bill followed him after one last look at the closed door.  
"If you don't mind my asking, what's wrong with him?" Harry asked, unable to resist his curiosity. From the look on his face, Lucius definitely _did_ mind him asking.  
"Oh, he has been a bit under the weather the last few days. A general sort of malaise, Mr Potter."  
Harry nodded politely and accepted the non-answer for the time being, exchanged another look with Bill, and shoved the speculations about what sort of illness could make Draco Malfoy look like he had to the back of his mind to focus on the search.  
The others came to find them around half five, and they agreed to call it a day. Harry then remembered Draco's room, but since that shouldn't take long and he didn't really expect to find anything he and Bill couldn't handle between the two of them, he told the others to go ahead and go home. They informed Lucius of the arrangement, and he was visibly glad to see the backs of the other Aurors, and agreed that, yes, Draco was now busy elsewhere.  
Harry and Bill headed up again to the top floor, and Harry couldn't deny that he was curious to see how the scion of a pure blood family lived. Actually, he was curious to see how Draco Malfoy lived, to catch a glimpse behind the façade of the boy he had clashed so often with during their school days.

Malfoy's room was... stark. The furniture matched, of course, all of it old and heavy and of a very dark, almost black wood. The hangings on the huge four poster were dark green, darker than the Slytherin shade, almost a forest green that might have been soothing in a different atmosphere. A thick, luxurious quilt in midnight blue covered the bed neatly, hiding the sheets, and made Harry feel somewhat better about invading Malfoy's privacy like this. Two high, slender windows let in chequered swaths of evening light through their latticed panes, falling on a black carpet and highlighting the dark green twists of the vine-like pattern on it. The curtains were dark green too, velvet from the looks of them, slashed with shiny black silk. There was a large, massive desk under one window, covered with a haphazard mess of books, parchment, and quills, an open inkwell balanced precariously close to the edge. The walls were the bare, light grey stone of the Manor, only marginally softened by two tapestries, both showing forest scenes at night, greens, black and silver thread woven into trees and grass gently and silently swaying in moon light.  
They made quick work of the room, checking the desk and one large wardrobe, four doors long and so deep Bill's entire upper body vanished into it as he checked the back for trapdoors or hidden compartments. Harry rifled through the scrolls and books on the desk, but they all were concerned with potions of one kind or another, and the drawers only yielded the expected: spare parchment and quills, a small penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle, a few ties to fasten letters to an owl's legs, a small tin of owl treats, a box of letters Harry only gave the very briefest skim since they were, after all, not here to investigate the younger Malfoy, and no false bottoms, hidden compartments, or magical artefacts of any kind. He moved on to the night stand, the top of which held a candle stick and a slim copy of a Wizarding novel. Even the bookmark peeking crookedly out on top was black, matching the décor, Harry noted with a wry grin. He checked the nightstand's drawer, blushed when he recognized the innocuous little flask of clear fluid at the back of it, checked quickly to make sure there was no hidden compartment there, and then peeked under the bed, hoping he didn't stumble across any more intensely private details of Draco Malfoy's life. He really could've done without the knowledge that they preferred the same brand of lubricant. Thankfully, only a bit of dust met his inspection and not, as he had half feared, Malfoy's collection of porn or worse. Apparently, they did not keep that sort of thing in the same place, at least.  
It didn't take them more than twenty minutes to ascertain that Draco Malfoy was not hiding anything of a dangerous or forbidden nature in his rooms, and Harry gladly closed the door as the sunlight through the windows grew fainter. Bill was in a noticeable better mood since the moon had risen, today while the sun was still bright in the sky. The restless tension always left him once the moon was up, but instead he was filled with a boundless energy. He'd tried to describe it to Harry once, had said it was like some sort of spring tightening more and more inside of him the closer the moon came, to release with the moon rise, the moment true werewolves changed shape. Once the moon was up, Harry had observed, Bill was almost his usual self, just maybe a little bit... high. It was the best analogy he could think of for the expansive good mood the full moon inspired in Bill, coupled with a certain recklessness and a desire for movement, a carefree, drunken wildness that usually drove him outdoors to run for hours under the night sky.

They made their way down several staircases and along portrait-covered hallways until they finally reached the centre of the building and the main staircase again. It's graceful sweep brought them down into the entrance hall, and Harry took a few steps towards the front door when he stopped, frowned, and turned towards the hallway to the cellar. Bill rocked on his heels as he came to a stop, hands in his pocket, and gave him a puzzled look.  
"What?"  
"I don't know..." Harry replied, still frowning and squinting into the darkness of the unlit hallway. "I thought I heard something..."  
Bill cocked his head, nostrils flaring, and they stayed quiet for a moment.  
"I don't..." Bill started, then fell silent, because there unmistakeably was a sound, _clickety-clickety-clickety_ , and it was getting louder. They exchanged a startled look, and Harry's wand appeared in his hand almost without his volition, because that was the rhythmical clicking of claws on stone, and it was coming rapidly closer.  
A pale shape emerged from the murky gloom, and Harry sucked in a sharp breath as he raised his wand.  
Black nostrils flared and triangular ears tilted sharply forward as the white wolf slowed down and then came to a wary stop not fifteen feet from them. Harry's eyes skipped over the too-broad snout, the shape of the pupils gleaming in the amber eyes, the tufted tail...  
"Oh shit," he hissed, wand handle suddenly slippery with sweat in his palm as his fingers tightened.  
The wolf stared at them now, motionless, thoughts unreadable in those alien eyes. It looked ghostly, a pale splash in the dark hallway, and yet Harry could almost feel its physicality radiating off of it, the steel-strength of the muscles waiting under the fur, could anticipate its weight as it tackled him down, the musky scent, the burn of sharp claws and sharper teeth in his flesh...  
Two leaps, he estimated, two forceful bounds and it would have cleared the distance between them, and he wasn't at all confident he would be able to react in time. Werewolves were fast. And strong. And slathering, savage killers with a sweet tooth for wizards if they hadn't taken Wolfsbane, and not prone to calm staring matches. He hoped.  
"Malfoy?" he croaked, because who else could it be, with that fur? "Is that you in there?"  
The wolf stood there, motionless, staring at him.  
"Oh, please tell me you're on Wolfsbane," Harry muttered, whether to himself or to the wolf he didn't know. The wolf blinked.  
Harry swallowed hard, and very slowly, lowered his wand a fraction.  
"Okay, how about this, wag your tail for 'yes' and growl for 'no'?"  
Nothing happened for a moment, then the bushy tip of the tail tilted to the right a bit.  
"Malfoy?" Harry asked, heart hammering fiercely.  
The tail swung again, a bit more decisively this time.  
"So you have taken Wolfsbane?"  
Some of the tension seemed to leave the shoulders and back of the wolf and his rear end sank a little as he swung his tail again.  
"Oh thank God," Harry breathed in relief and sheathed his wand again.  
Malfoy's ears played, tilting sideways and forwards again, and a long pink tongue darted out to lick over his whiskers and black chops as he relaxed, his direct stare still fixed on Harry, and he seemed a little puzzled to Harry, who took a moment to look him over, now that he wasn't worried about having werewolf teeth in his throat the next moment.  
His nose, lips and claws were the only points of black on him, while his fur was true to his natural colouring. It was ivory on his back and the front of his legs, fading to pure white along his belly. His eyes were the typical eerie amber of a wolf, seeming darker than usual surrounded by all the white. He was large but lean, probably a hand higher in the shoulders than a regular wolf, with long, powerful legs.  
"How did you manage to get yourself into _this_ sort of trouble?" Harry asked, and learned that wolves _could_ look disdainful. It was something in the tilt of the ears, he thought.  
"Yes, yes," he grumbled, scowling at Malfoy, "I know, you're not much for talking at the moment. Oh, never mind... Were you heading out?"  
The tail twitched hesitantly, and Harry gave Malfoy a puzzled look and was about to inquire further when a high-pitched, terrified scream cut through the hall.  
Malfoy's ears flashed back, his fur bristled and his muscles bunched as he launched himself forward, eyes no longer on Harry's. Harry whirled, to see Lucius and Narcissa up on the gallery that merged into the main staircase, Narcissa's eyes huge with fear, slender hands pressed over her mouth, Lucius' face a pinched, white mask. It took him only a moment to take this in, to calculate the trajectory of the wolf dashing past him. Desperately, he lurched into motion to intercept Draco even though he knew he was too slow, he'd never reach Draco before Draco reached the staircase, and his fumbling hand would never draw his wand fast enough.  
And then Bill tackled Draco, moving faster than he should have been able to, and they went down in a tangle of skittering claws and long red hair. Draco tried to twist around, teeth gleaming and a growl echoing through the hall, but Bill kept behind him, got an arm around his throat and levered them back and up. Draco's front paws left the floor, and he was twisting in Bill's hold, trying to turn his head for a bite, claws lashing the air, but he couldn't get the necessary leverage like this, back pressed to Bill's chest.  
Harry skated to a halt next to them and clamped both hands around Draco's muzzle, linking his fingers, forcing his snapping jaws shut while he ignored the gruesome images his mind conjured of what would happen if he caught a finger between those rows of flashing, razor-sharp teeth.  
The growl still rumbled in Draco's chest, his eyes were blazing and feral, all sanity gone.  
"Draco!" Harry called, tugging on the muzzle straining against his grip. "Draco, stop! Listen to me! Listen!"  
Hot, slimy, infectious saliva ran between his fingers, and he told himself sternly not to be silly, he knew he didn't have any open wounds on his hands, it didn't matter. Draco's wolf eyes glared at him from less than a foot away and Harry could feel his jaws straining to open against Harry's grip, the wiry whiskers pressing against his palm. His ears were still pressed flat to his skull and Bill's free hand had clamped around his front paws, keeping the inch-long claws away from Harry.  
"No, listen! _Think_ , Draco! I know you're in there, and I know you can control this. You were doing fine! Calm down. Breathe. Listen to me. Do you understand what I'm saying?" For a moment the constant stream of growls quieted a little, and Harry stared hopefully into Malfoy's eyes, searched for a glimpse of understanding there, but then the wolf twisted again, tried to rip his head free and nearly yanked Harry off balance. Harry cursed as Bill braced against the fighting animal, his arm tightening across Draco's throat, almost vanishing in the thick white ruff. His left and Harry's right thighs pressed together as they had to take care not to step on each other's feet in the close quarters.  
They clung onto the wolf that was straining between them with muscles like steel wire and Harry feared that one of them would slip any second, but finally Draco settled down again, breath brushing harsh and wet against one of Harry's wrists.  
"That's it," Harry panted, trying to sound encouraging, "calm down, we're not trying to hurt you. You just need to calm down and then we'll let you go, okay? That's right, come on now, Draco, it's okay. Do you understand me? Do you understand what I'm saying?"  
Some of the feral glare left Draco's eyes, and one ear tip detached itself from his skull to twitch hesitantly in Harry's direction.  
"Yes, me. You know me, don't you? You might not like me much, but I don't think you usually want to eat me. At least I hope not. So come on, take a few breaths and remember who you are."  
His ears were playing again, tilting in one direction then the other, and there was a hesitant wag of the tail.  
"Draco? Are you back?"  
A more definite wag.  
"No desires to eat anyone?"  
A muffled growl.  
"Are you sure?"  
This time, Draco's tail smacked against Bill's boot with considerable force.  
"Well, okay, then," Harry conceded and carefully stepped back before he quickly took his hands away from Draco's muzzle, getting his fingers out of reach as fast as possible, just in case. Draco, however, didn't make any attempts to snap, and Bill slowly let him go, setting him back down on all fours.  
Draco blinked at them for a moment, licked his chops, and then shook himself out, nose to tail.  
Harry breathed a sigh of relief, not caring who heard it and then looked at his palms in disgust.  
"Oh, eww," he grumbled and wiped them on his robes.  
"What?" he asked when he saw the look Draco gave him. "No, I don't care to have my hands full of werewolf slobber, so stop looking at me like that or I'll wipe them on your pelt."  
That brought him an offended glare and huff from the wolf. Harry glared back.  
The clearing of a throat made them all turn towards the senior Malfoys, still standing at the top of the staircase.  
"Draco," Lucius said stiffly. "What are you doing here? Why are you not in the cellar?"  
Draco's ears tilted backwards and his nose wrinkled in the beginnings of a snarl, but he also ducked down, tail drooping between his legs. If a wolf could look guilty, he certainly did.  
"The cellar?" Harry asked, feeling one of his eyebrows rise. "I thought he was on his way out for a run?"  
"Out?" Lucius asked, a thunderous frown starting on his face. Draco ducked down a little deeper, but his ears went back further, too. "It is far too dangerous for him to be outside in the state he is in."  
Harry looked at the large, white wolf.  
"I think he can take care of himself." He did his very best not to sound too caustic, but a certain sarcastic blandness was the best he could manage.  
"It is not his safety I am concerned about, Mr Potter," Lucius informed him, and evidently he, too, was having to try to preserve some modicum of politeness.  
"He's taken Wolfsbane," Harry pointed out. "Besides, your grounds are big, he can just stay inside the wards."  
"We cannot risk it. He has just demonstrated that, potion or no, he is not master of himself. There is no guarantee he will stay inside the wards. Draco, go back to the cellar. I will come in a moment to lock the door."  
Draco cast a look full of longing at the front door, then turned to slink back down the corridor to the cellar. Harry just couldn't stand it.  
"Wait," he said with an internal sigh. "How about this, I'll go with him on his run. He'll have better control if he can burn off some of that energy and stretch his legs a little, and I'll make sure he stays inside the wards."  
Lucius' frown didn't let up. "How do you propose to do that, Mr Potter? You will not be able to keep up with him outside, and you will hardly be able to stop him from going wherever he pleases without considerable danger to yourself."  
Harry couldn't help but smirk at the man. "I'm a registered Animagus, Mr Malfoy. As such, I will be immune to his bite, and I assure you, I can handle him."  
Lucius' eyebrow arched up sharply. "That must be quite some Animagus form you have, Mr Potter."  
"It is," Harry agreed placidly. "You coming too, Bill?"  
Bill gave him a slow, distracted blink and then smiled broadly. "Of course. Love to."  
"That okay with you?" Harry asked Draco, and received a very definite 'yes' by way of tail wagging.  
He cast a look at Lucius, who didn't look like he approved at all, but the man made no move to stop him when Harry crossed the hall and threw open the front door. He took a deep breath of the cool, fragrant evening air as Draco's claws clicked on the tiles behind him. The sky was pale blue with the last light of the day in the west while the stars shone as bright, cold pinpricks in the east. The full moon rode already high overhead, bright as a torch in the clear sky. Harry went down the steps onto the gravel of the drive way and then let his body flow into the shape of his Animagus form.  
He stretched and shook his fur out, stuck his blunt nose up for another sniff of the evening air, now so much richer with scents, and cast his eye over the nightly landscape, washed off colours but bright as day to his eyes.  
Draco trotted up next to him to look him over curiously, nostrils flaring. Harry did a little scenting of his own, and looked him over from his new vantage point.  
He stood higher than Harry, with those long legs of his, but Harry was longer, so he estimated that mass-wise, they were about the same. Harry noted with amusement that, as in life, they were each other's complete opposite, his cat to Draco's wolf, Draco's white to his black.  
Having a black panther for an Animagus form was rather impressive, Harry knew, but it was also not very practical in a day-to-day kind of way in England. When he'd started the long, hard training for the transformation, he had hoped for something a bit more unobtrusive, something that wouldn't engender a panic and a call to the police if he was seen in Muggle surroundings, but it was what it was, and despite the fact that he got to enjoy his form far more rarely than he wanted to, he was otherwise secretly rather smug about it.  
His panther body was so powerful, and the fluid way he could move was addictive, so he gave a playful little growl, butted his head into Draco's shoulder hard enough to make him stagger, and took off with a challenging whip of his tail.  
It was only moments before his sharp ears picked up the rush of paws through grass behind him, and he stretched his leaps out further, put on more speed, tried to stay ahead for a little while longer.  
Despite all his efforts, Draco was gaining on him, and soon a white head appeared next to his shoulder, inching forwards, and amber eyes met his own. Harry gave his best cat-grin and pushed himself to the limit, going as fast as he could across the wide expanse of manicured lawn around the Manor to the distant line of trees.  
He widened the distance between them for a moment, but his endurance failed him before they reached the trees, and Draco steadily inched ahead of him.  
Harry hadn't expected anything else, after all, wolves were built for long, drawn out hunts, while cats were meant to stalk their prey quietly and then bring it down quickly. So rather than letting Draco run away from him, Harry decided to have a little fun, and sank his teeth into the thick tail swaying so temptingly before his nose. Draco yelped and stumbled in surprise as his smooth rhythm was broken, and Harry came away, panting, with a few white hairs between his teeth as a trophy. Draco whirled around, hackles up and growling, and far too serious. Harry ducked, low to the ground, ready to spring any way at any moment, and showed his teeth in challenge, even while his ears stayed pointed forward to make it clear he was playing.  
Draco looked confused, took a few tense steps to the side, growl dying down but teeth still bared. If Harry had been able to, he would've rolled his eyes. Didn't the man recognize when he was being teased? He jumped, threw himself at Draco and barrelled him over with his momentum, rode him down on his belly and snagged another few white hairs out of his ruff, and sprang away again before Draco could turn and bite. Triumphant, he pranced with his prize between his teeth while Draco lay there, panting and perplexed, and watched him with narrowed eyes. So Harry sat down, temptingly close, and started cleaning his fur as if he had no other concern in the world, ostensibly ignoring the annoyed werewolf perched just a few metres away. He hadn't gotten in more than three good swipes of his tongue along his side before a white blur charged him, and they went down in a tumble of fur and limbs and teeth. They were growling and snarling at each other, muzzles darting for soft sides and throats, crushing the sweet grass under them, and Harry would have laughed if he was human, because this was the most fun he'd had in a long time. They chased each other back and forth across the lawn and tried to throw each other off their feet, wrestle the other down, and Harry knew he would have a truly impressive array of scratches to heal the next morning, but it was all just play. Neither of them bit as deep as they could have, and Harry mostly kept his claws to himself.  
In the end, Harry ended up on his back with Draco standing over him, jaws around his throat and a playful growl rumbling through his chest. In answer, Harry pressed his hind legs against Draco's belly, the soft, vulnerable part behind his rips, and let him feel just a hint of claw.  
There was laughter from somewhere close by, and they both turned their eyes to look at the source without altering their position, to find Bill sprawled in the grass, propped up on his elbows, watching them.  
"I'd call that a draw, boys," he drawled in amusement. They stood a moment longer, then Draco let go and stepped away, and Harry rolled back onto all fours and shook himself out.

It wasn't the last playful fight he had with Draco that night, in between bouts of pelting through the woods and across the lawns as fast as they could go. Bill couldn't keep up when they were running full out, but they came back or waited for him, and ran for stretches together, all three of them at an easy lope while the moon slowly made it's way across the sky.  
Harry's belly was growling, since, after all, they had missed dinner, when Draco put his nose to the ground with an excited huff, and dashed off amongst the trees, white tail waving. Harry caught the scent of deer, and why the hell not? He joined the chase, and he joined the gruesome, bloody feast at the end with Bill and Draco. His animal form could handle the digestion, and actually, it tasted delicious with a panther's palate, as long as he didn't think too closely about it.


	3. Chapter 3

The morning sun woke him, and he found his left side and back chilly and damp with dew, his right warm with the weight of a limp body, his shoulder numb. Harry managed to lever himself up on his elbows and squinted around blearily, the sun painfully bright in his eyes.  
He apparently had fallen asleep on the lawn of Malfoy Manor, a few dozen feet from the edge of the woods, the Manor itself a square shape in the distance, bright flashes of light glinting off its windows. And next to him, head sliding down his chest from its resting place on his shoulder, arm flung across his stomach with the abandon of sleep, was Draco Malfoy himself, naked and passed out cold in the grass. His hair was still dirty, there were still shadows under his eyes even in his sleep, and he was too thin, but Harry's eyes ran over his bare body with appreciation before he could stop himself, and he realized with an uncomfortable surge of heat that Draco Malfoy was beautiful.  
His legs were longer than Harry had ever realized, and every line of his body, thighs and hips, chest and arms down to his fingertips was long and graceful. The low morning sun didn't leave many shadows on his form, and confirmed that, yes, Draco was platinum-blond all over, and very nicely equipped besides. With a guilty jolt, Harry yanked his eyes away and up, noting in passing a set of new, pink claw marks across Draco's left upper thigh, their spread wider than his own hand, and a second, more savage mark across Draco's ribs where he must have been bitten. Harry's eyes came to rest on the blond head on his stomach, tantalizing glimpses of a long, pale neck and the arch of a collarbone showing through the tangle of hair. At some point, Draco had outgrown his pointy features into a delicate sweep of eyebrows, high cheekbones and the most delicious jawline Harry had ever seen on a man.  
Harry raised his eyes from his appraisal of his erstwhile rival to find that he wasn't the only one looking. His eyes met Bill's over Draco's sleeping body and they shared one of those moments of perfect understanding, perfect awareness that they were thinking exactly the same.  
The moment hung between them, until Bill blinked, and with one of his small, easy grins broke the undefinable tension building. He gathered himself up from the lawn, and removed his hair tie to comb his hands through his long, tangled hair before he redid his customary pony tail. Then he held a hand out over Draco's sleeping body to help Harry to his feet. Harry took it and allowed Bill to pull him up, wincing a little at the twinges and soreness coursing through his muscles after a night spent running and wrestling werewolves and sleeping on the ground. He plucked a few leaves and grass blades out of his own hair and then looked down at Draco, still dead to the world, and shared another look with Bill.  
"I guess we better get him inside," Bill observed. "He'll catch a cold out here like that."  
Harry nodded and shrugged out of his Auror robes to drape them over Draco's body, both for warmth and modesty. Bill knelt and picked the other man up in his arms with only marginal difficulty, and turned to start the walk towards the Manor, Harry following along.

They were met by Lucius in the Entrance Hall. His face was stony when they carried his son in, but he took a step back when Bill turned towards him. Bill and Harry exchanged another look.  
"We'll just take him to his room, then," Harry said, as neutral as he could, and Lucius nodded, gloved hands clenched over the top of his cane. Despite the ungodly early hour, he was turned out impeccably, robes falling in smooth, perfect lines, not a hair out of place on his head, not a wrinkle or a piece of lint in sight. Harry was all the more aware of the grubby, disreputable state the three of them were in, but he savagely decided not to care.  
They made their way up the stairs, and Harry opened the door to Draco's room so Bill could step through, and then turned down that neat quilt and the equally neat duvet beneath. The sheets were black, of course. Bill laid Draco down, Harry took his robes back, and Bill tucked the Malfoy heir in as if he was one of his little brothers, with easy proficiency. They lingered for a moment, looking at the young man whose pale, exhausted complexion certainly wasn't helped by his choice in colour theme, and who hadn't so much as stirred through the entire thing. Then they shared another look before they left the room and softly closed the door behind them. It seemed to be a morning for that. This one was far more complex than those before. Harry saw the same uneasy, grudging compassion in Bill's face that he felt himself, a touch of worry for a person they had never expected to feel anything of the sort for.  
They said their goodbyes to Lucius, who was waiting for them in the Entrance Hall, and then hurried home, to grab a few precious hours of sleep in a bed before they had to be back for work. Harry was stumbling with exhaustion by the time he made it up to his room in the attic, and it took a lot of self-control to not just face-plant into his pillow, but remove his clothes and get properly into bed. And, of course, set his alarm for a time that was not nearly far enough in the future.

They slogged through their next workday hollow-eyed and probably not with as much focus and concentration as they should have. Harry wasn't too worried, though. He'd done some quick checking of the calendar and the moon phases and confirmed that, yes, Lucius Malfoy's odd breach of the wards had happened on a full moon night. From there, it was easy to extrapolate a rough outline of what had happened: It hadn't been Lucius who breached the wards, but a werewolf. It hadn't been Lucius the wolf encountered, but Draco, who had every right to be out at night, inside the wards or out. Draco had been attacked. By the time the Ministry showed up, Lucius had removed Draco from the scene and pretended it had been his own fault to cover up what had happened, and his uncharacteristic compliance with the fine that had set Robbarts' senses tingling was done in an attempt to keep the Ministry from investigating any further. The only question which remained for Harry was: what had happened to the werewolf who attacked Draco? Was he still alive, out there? Was it a premeditated attack or an accident?  
They didn't meet Draco Malfoy that day, but Lucius was in the Entrance Hall to bid them good-bye in the evening.  
"Mr Potter," he said with a stiff incline of his head. "Mr Weasley."  
It was just the three of them again, as Kelly, Williamson and Dennis had left after they finished with the library half an hour before. Rather than starting on a new room, they had decided after conferring for a moment, the three of them would head home for the day, and Harry and Bill would follow suit once they were done with the room they were currently occupied in, and then they would divide up the remainder of the Manor the next morning.  
"Mr Malfoy," Harry answered.  
"I am assuming you will be informing your superiors about my son's... condition?" Lucius stated, cool, collected, as if it didn't matter to him one way or another, but Harry could see the lines of tension around his eyes.  
He shook his head. "I'm an Auror, Mr Malfoy. Werewolves are no concern of mine or my department."  
Lucius eyebrow inched up a fraction, and Harry thought he might actually have surprised the man.  
"Of course, as an employee of the Ministry, I will be assuming that Draco, law-abiding citizen that he is, will remedy his unfortunate oversight and register with the authorities at his earliest convenience," Harry continued in his blandest tone. "I, however, am far too busy to follow up on something so outside my jurisdiction."  
The eyebrow inched higher. "I... see," Lucius said, and for once Harry thought that they were in perfect agreement. "And you, Mr Weasley?"  
Bill looked surprised. "Me? I'm no employee of the Ministry, it's no concern of mine."  
"Very well." Lucius gave them both a nod that was almost respectful. "Good night then, gentlemen."

"Do you really think that little speech will keep you out of trouble if it comes out that he's not registered and you knew about it?" Bill asked as they entered their flat.  
Harry shrugged. "Probably not," he admitted. "But it's better than outright encouraging him to break the law. And what the hell, I'll pay the fine and take the heat if it comes to that. It's certainly worth it."  
It was no secret that Harry disapproved of the Werewolf Registration Act. He'd spoken out against it on several public occasions, and no jury would believe that he hadn't kept the information to himself on purpose if Draco's lack of registration ever ended up in court. But the Registration Act, no matter how well-intentioned it might have been when Scamander had pushed it through in 1947, was a tool that mostly accomplished one thing and one thing only: It made the ostracism of and discrimination against werewolves that much easier. Never mind that the Register was supposed to be confidential, for authorized personnel only, with someone like Draco Malfoy, the news would leak.  
They had a quiet, tired dinner, and Harry was very much looking forward to a nice, hot shower and his bed. He was not so much looking forward to going back to the Manor and possibly encountering Draco again. Draco in human form, and able to speak. Or hex him, who knew which way it would go with him? Running in the moonlight had been so easy and uncomplicated, but now, in the light of day so to speak, things were very complicated indeed. It was awkward, knowing something so intimate as his darkest secret about one's rival. And, of course, having seen him naked.  
"You never mentioned he was this hot," Bill observed, his thoughts obviously following a very similar path.  
"He wasn't," Harry answered. "Or I didn't realize."  
Their eyes met across the dining table, and the tension that had been there earlier started building again, an uncertain growth of new thoughts and possibilities.  
"So..." Bill said slowly when the moment had moved well into awkwardness, "now what?"  
"How do you mean?" Harry asked cautiously.  
"Now that you have noticed, are you going to do anything about it?"  
"Like what? Ask him out?" Harry hadn't really thought about it, but now that he did, he thought his plan had been to ignore the hell out of his realization and hope it went away again. Bill, however, shrugged.  
"Yeah, for example."  
"I... don't think so. I mean... We've hated each other's guts for seven years. I'll probably want to strangle him again as soon as he opens his mouth."  
"So you wouldn't mind if I asked him out?"  
Harry opened his mouth to answer that, no, of course he wouldn't mind, then thought about it, and shut his mouth again. He frowned.  
Actually... that sounded like a recipe for disaster. If Bill dated Draco (and he would _never_ have expected that that thought would ever occupy his mind), things would get very awkward, very fast. After all, Draco would be around. As his room mate's _boyfriend_. And that seemed wrong on more than one front. Firstly, having to share Bill's attention with _Draco Malfoy_? Yes, it sounded childish and ridiculous and petty like this, but the truth was that he didn't relish the thought. Secondly... he found, to his surprise, that he felt rather proprietary about _Draco's_ attention, too. Somehow, he assumed he held a special place in Draco's life, and he'd never realized it, but... he couldn't stand the thought of not mattering to Draco Malfoy.  
"Oh my God," he said with something akin to horror, "I do mind." He ran a hand over his face, then scrubbed it through his hair as the realization sank in, and looked helplessly back at Bill. "What do we do?"  
"Sleep on it," Bill answered decidedly. "I don't know about you, but I'm so tired I can barely see straight. Besides, as you said, the problem might take care of itself once we meet him again and he actually opens his mouth. As charming as he might look when he's asleep, from everything I've heard over the years he's quite a different matter awake."  
Harry snorted a laugh. "Oh, is he ever. _Charming_ is not a quality I've ever associated with him. Besides, who says he's got any interest in one of _us_? Even if he _were_ gay, which, as far as I know, he's not, the Boy Who Lived or a Weasley would be the last people he'd want anything to do with."  
Bill smiled ruefully. "Very, very true." He rose from the table and sent the dishes into the sink. "If you don't mind, I'll clean up tomorrow. I'm more likely to explode the plates than clean them tonight."  
"Sure," Harry agreed and used the table to lever himself to his feet. "I'll just let Timothy in, and then I'm turning in."  
"I'm for bed, then. Night, Harry."  
"Night."  
Not much later, when he lay in bed with Timothy in his arms, Harry couldn't help but probe at the thought. What would it be like... to be in bed with Draco Malfoy? To touch him, to kiss him...? Harry felt himself blushing, half-guilty, in the darkness. It was a tempting thought, an intriguing one, but also one that seemed so out there, so utterly _unlikely_... It was _Draco Malfoy_ , after all! Not only had he never _liked_ the man, but... what would someone like _he_ , gorgeous, rich, snobbish, pure-blooded, want with _Harry_? Because no matter how much he had achieved, and often it still seemed like a dream, like someone else had done all of it, no matter how the papers gushed about him, he still felt like plain, old Harry Potter, with the glasses and the ridiculous hair and the oversized clothes whom none of the other kids wanted to play with. And Draco Malfoy... the playground bully, the pampered rich boy... seeing the house in which he'd grown up brought it home once more that Draco might as well be aristocracy, that he lived and moved and breathed in a world far removed from Harry's cramped little suburban Muggle upbringing.  
How could they possibly ever work together? Really, it would be so much more reasonable and grown-up to acknowledge the futility of the notion and step out of the way, to give Bill the go-ahead and not begrudge him his success if Draco were to actually agree.  
Harry realized he was grinding his teeth at the thought. He didn't _want_ to. He didn't want to be the one sitting on the sidelines while others _lived_ and he just watched. He didn't want to have to smile and pretend he was perfectly fine with it. And he just couldn't figure out whether he would be jealous of Bill or of Draco. He sighed, ran a hand down Timothy's back, and tried to let the Kneazle purr him to sleep.  
"At least you'll be keeping me company," he muttered wryly. Timothy purred.

Harry and Bill didn't talk much for most of the morning when they returned to the Manor. But while they were searching, moving from room to room, Harry relaxed. The atmosphere between them returned to their normal, comfortable ease and by the time lunch break rolled around, they were talking easily again. Though, Dennis was giving them the one or other sidelong look, and Harry wondered what he was seeing.  
With Kelly and Williamson there, however, he didn't ask and so their mealtime discussion only revolved about how to best divide the rest of the search, and about how they were all in agreement that it shouldn't take longer than another day, maybe a day and a half until they were finished, much to everyone's relief. Harry volunteered to search the cellars under the Manor, and Bill, after a moment's thought and a short look from Harry, quickly agreed.  
So it was that they were the ones coming up the corridor from downstairs into the hall when they met Draco again.  
Draco saw them, straightened, and stopped several steps away. His eyes flicked from one of them to the other, than slid away.  
"Potter," he addressed the air somewhere between them. "Weasley."  
"Malfoy," Harry replied and Bill nodded his acknowledgement.  
"How are you doing?" Harry asked when the ensuing silence stretched.  
"Fine," he replied shortly, then, after what seemed like a bit of a struggle, "Thank you."  
"That's good to hear," Bill observed.  
Draco nodded and fidgeted a little where he stood, and Harry realized that he must be feeling at least as self-conscious as Harry did. Somehow, knowing Draco Malfoy was uncomfortable with the situation made him feel a lot more confident himself.  
Draco opened his mouth, closed it again and then visibly steeled himself, his spine becoming even stiffer than it already was.  
"I wish to thank you for your... assistance," he intoned formally, face expressionless and gaze still fixed somewhere between them as if he couldn't bear to look them in the eye.  
"You're welcome," Bill replied with all his easy-going charm warm in his voice and Draco's eyes darted to him for a split second.  
"It was fun," Harry added. "If you need someone to run with again..."  
This time it was his eyes Draco met for a split second, not nearly long enough for him to decode the complex expression swirling in them.  
"I don't think..." he started, swallowed, then continued more decisively: "That won't be necessary, thank you. If you'll excuse me."  
He whirled around, robes flaring out around his slender form, and marched off into the direction he'd come from.  
Harry looked at Bill.  
"Somehow I think we just made him run away," he observed quietly. A grin started curling Bill's lips.  
"I think you're right," he agreed with amusement.  
"And was it just me or was he _blushing_?"  
"No, he was. Not sure why, but that was a blush."  
They looked at each other with some confusion, then Harry shrugged, and they made their way into the Entrance Hall to inform Lucius that they were finished for the day.

"You know, if this job wasn't so tedious, it'd almost be a vacation," Bill observed over dinner. "I can't remember the last time I've been home at a reasonable hour for this many days in a row."  
Harry chuckled. "You realize it's just been two days in a row? Considering we came home after freaking dawn at the full moon."  
Bill laughed. "You've got a point there. Still..."  
"Yeah," Harry agreed. "Still. I know what you mean. I could use more days like this myself. Well, apart from the..." He made a vague gesture with his fork. "Malfoy-ness."  
Bill looked at him, then broke out laughing and it took a little while until he calmed down again. "Malfoy-ness. Yeah, I think that's as apt a description as any. The less I see of old Lucius, the better." He paused for a thoughtful moment. "Draco, though..."  
"Yeah." Harry poked at a carrot. "Draco."  
"He was kind of... adorable, wasn't he?"  
Harry looked up from mutilating his food in consternation. _Adorable_? In combination with _Draco Malfoy_?  
Bill laughed again. "Oh, don't look at me like that!"  
"Well... I don't know what your definition of 'adorable' is..." Harry said sceptically, wrinkling his nose. "But I didn't have any urges to kill him on the spot, so I guess... he was actually pretty decent, by his standards."  
"Well, he said thanks and all."  
"Yeah, and he looked as if someone had a wand pointed at his head while he did it."  
"He was certainly uncomfortable. I think it's cute."  
Harry ran a hand over his face. "If you say so..."  
"So I think we should ask him out."  
Harry blinked. "Come again?"  
"We should ask him out," Bill repeated. "You know, have dinner or something."  
Harry blinked again. "Did you say 'we'?"  
"Yeah. Unless you're not interested anymore, of course."  
"No, no, I am," Harry protested before he had even had time to think about his answer. Then he took a breath and scrubbed his hand through his hair. "Okay, what exactly are you suggesting?" Because God knew, he wasn't sure where Bill was going with this. 'We'?  
It was Bill's turn to push a gravy-soaked piece of carrot across his plate. In Harry's experience, it was unlikely he'd still eat it.  
"I've been thinking about it," Bill started slowly. "I want to give things with Draco a try at least. But I don't want this to ruin our friendship." He looked at Harry seriously. "I don't want to hurt you, Harry. So I don't want to ask you to step aside, and I sure as hell don't want to fight with you over him. So I've thought about it and I've come to realize that I wouldn't mind sharing with you." Harry's expression must have conveyed his confused surprise, because Bill shrugged and looked a little embarrassed. "I know it's unconventional, but... it's the only thing I could think of. And if you don't agree, if this doesn't work for you, well..." He shrugged again. "I promise you, I won't start anything with him if it's not okay with you. Our friendship is more important to me than some possible relationship with Draco Malfoy that might or might not work out."  
Harry had to swallow around the lump that suddenly seemed to settle in his throat. Oh, God, if Bill kept this up, he was going to cry like a girl. It was silly, he knew that, but... But. Bill's words crawled all the way into his chest and settled there as a heavy, warm weight.  
"I..." he started, then realized he had no idea how to go on. He licked his lips and took a deep breath, and thought about what Bill had just offered. They'd already established that he'd mind if Bill and Draco dated. Would he mind if Draco dated Bill _and_ him? At the same time? Surprisingly... no. He listened inside himself, waited for the stab of jealousy, of anger, of this definite rejection he felt at the thought of watching Bill and Draco be a couple... a couple where he had no part. It didn't come. He didn't know whether he would be this equanimous about it if things were to move into a more... physical territory, but for the moment, he was surprisingly fine with the idea.  
"I think that might work for me," he admitted hesitantly. He stared Bill in the eye. Bill stared him in the eye. The tension was back, thick and heavy and very, very hard to ignore away. "He might not agree, you know," Harry pointed out, his voice not quite as steady as he would have liked it to be. Bill gave a slight shrug.  
"Of course. But we can at least try, right?"  
"What if he decides he only wants to date one of us?"  
"I don't know," Bill said softly, finally breaking their eye contact to look away to the side. "I guess we'll have to see, take it how it comes." He looked back at Harry. "But what I said before holds true. I won't date him if it's not okay with you."  
Harry nodded slowly. "Yeah. Same here."  
Bill gave him a warm, grateful smile, and Harry sank back in his chair and gave a somewhat shaky laugh.  
"Oh, God, I'm not sure whether I'm more worried about this working or not working!" he admitted. "Imagine! If this works out... it's got to be one of the crazier things I've ever done! The family's going to have a collective heart attack if they hear of this! Can you just see Ron's face?"  
Bill gave a chuckle that, to Harry's gratification, also held an edge of hysteria.  
"I'd rather not. Really, really rather not."  
Bill got up and stretched, then collected the dishes with a sweep of his wand and moved to the sink to start the wash up. Harry took out Timothy's bowl and food, and leaned against the counter next to Bill to wait for his kneazle to make his evening appearance. Silence settled between them, but it was comfortable, unstrained.

"Why do _I_ have to ask him?" Harry hissed.  
"You know him better," Bill argued, obviously trying to sound very reasonable.  
"Yeah, so I know better when he's about to hex me or what?"  
Bill grinned. "For example. C'mon, Harry, you're the Auror, surely you're not scared?" he teased.  
Harry glowered at him, then huffed. "Fine! But don't blame me if this doesn't work out because he remembers that he rather hates me!"  
He stalked off down the corridor towards Draco's door. The sweep of the Manor was complete, and with it easy access to Draco Malfoy was at an end if they wanted to extend their invitation in person rather than per owl.  
He arrived at Draco's door and took a few deep breaths, tried to quell his nerves, and then just knocked.  
"Yes?"  
Draco was sitting at his desk, turning to look at the door as Harry opened it. He still looked tired, Harry noted. It wasn't as extreme as it had been the night of the full moon, but there were still shadows under his eyes, a certain pallor to his skin that had nothing to do with his complexion. His hair was still frayed and unkempt, and none too clean, and his robes were still in the same disreputable state.  
"Potter. What can I do for you?" He sounded cool, but not outright antagonistic, and Harry took that as a good sign. He leaned against the door frame, not quite daring to actually enter Draco's room.  
"Well. I came to ask whether you would consider going out with Bill and me sometime?"  
There was silence. Draco kept looking at him, face expressionless.  
"Excuse me?" he asked after the silence had dragged on for several heartbeats too many.  
"I was wondering whether you would go out with Bill and me sometime," Harry repeated, but Draco made an impatient gesture with one hand.  
"Yes, I heard you. Go out to do _what_?"  
Harry shrugged. "Have dinner, we were thinking. Something else if you'd rather."  
"Potter. Are you asking me _out_?"  
"Yes."  
"No, I don't think you understood me correctly. Are you asking me out on a _date_?"  
"Yes."  
Draco blinked, opened his mouth, closed it again, and blinked again.  
"Since when are you gay?" he finally blurted out.  
Harry snorted. "Since always."  
"No, you're not." There was a note of accusation in Draco's voice. Harry felt his eyebrow rise.  
"I think I know my own sexuality, thanks."  
"But... you've dated the Weasley girl. The papers never mentioned anything like that."  
Harry rolled his eyes. "We broke up, and I had to find out, didn't I? And what did you think I'd do, take out an ad in the Prophet?"  
Draco looked at him with a small frown between his eyebrows, absorbing this.  
"I could tell on you," he stated slowly.  
Harry shrugged again. "Go ahead. It's not a _secret_."  
"And Weasley, too?"  
Harry nodded. "Yep."  
Draco was silent for another moment.  
"So, let me see whether I understand you correctly:" he said then. "You _and_ Weasley want to ask me out on a _date_?"  
Harry sighed and rubbed the bridge of his nose where his glasses rested. "Look, I know it's weird," he said, looking up again. "But we're both... interested, and we didn't want to fight about it, so..." He shrugged.  
"So you're going to do what? How is this supposed to work?"  
"We're willing to share," Harry said, feeling a blush heat his face. He shifted against the door frame.  
"Share," Draco said blankly, and Harry couldn't tell whether he was insulted or merely stunned. He shrugged again.  
"Whatever," he said after another moment of silence, and Harry's heart sank. "I... appreciate the invitation, Potter, but I don't think so. I'm really not in any mood for a relationship at the moment."  
"Oh, come on," Harry protested. "Just a date? Just dinner?"  
Draco glared at him, and there was some of his old temper in it.  
"I said 'no', Potter. Don't be pathetic. Can't you take no for an answer?"  
Harry felt a small, rueful grin twitch at his lips despite the insult.  
"Not very well, no," he admitted. "I'm not asking for your hand in marriage here, Malfoy." Draco gave him a _look_. Harry ignored it. "Just come to dinner? I have a couple of excellent venison steaks in the cupboard, and you look like you could use them."  
Draco glowered. "Don't mother me, Potter."  
"I'm not!" Harry protested, offended and not a little disturbed. He wasn't _mothering_ Draco Malfoy! Was he?  
"Whatever! So you're not only pestering me after I've said no, you're also expecting me to eat _your_ cooking?"  
It hadn't been the plan. The plan had been to go out, some nice, neutral setting, but Harry knew how much stock werewolves set by food, and no place they went to would have quite the right menu.  
"Yes," he agreed dryly. "And you won't regret it, I promise. No commitments, no pressure, just dinner, and I know how to cook to your palate."  
Draco looked doubtful, torn, and Harry almost held his breath. Then Draco's shoulders sagged a little.  
"Fine. _Fine_. Dinner. Nothing more, you hear?"  
Harry felt a smile break out on his face, and he was a little surprised how glad he was that Draco had agreed. "Sure, of course. Whatever you're comfortable with."  
That got him a weak glare, probably to indicate that Draco wasn't even comfortable with that much, and it was just Harry's pestering that got him to agree. Harry didn't really mind.  
"So, when will you be expecting me? And where do you live, anyways?"  
"How about tomorrow around seven? You can Floo in, it's Potter and Weasley, Diagon Alley."  
Draco raised an eyebrow. "What an illustrious Floo address. Very well, I'll be there. Now shoo. I have work to do."  
Harry inclined his head and detached himself from the door frame. Draco turned back to his desk, pointedly dismissing him, and he closed the door quietly behind him. He strode down the corridor and did his best to suppress the broad grin that wanted to break out on his face.

"So?" Bill asked eagerly as they made their way to the gates of the Manor to Apparate home.  
"He's coming to dinner tomorrow," Harry announced triumphantly. Bill's eyebrows went up.  
"Coming to dinner? As in, at our place?"  
"Yeah." Harry nodded. "I know we planned to go out, but he didn't want to come at all, so I kind of lured him with the promise of venison steak, and we both know that no place we went to would do the meat to a werewolf's taste. Or serve enough of it, for that matter."  
"True enough. He didn't want to come?"  
Harry sighed, his high spirits dampened a bit. "No, he didn't," he admitted. "Don't push him, Bill. As in, at all. He said he had no interest in relationships at the moment. I promised him no pressure, no commitments."  
Bill echoed his sigh and shoved his hands in his pockets. "Aw, too bad. Oh, well, better having him over for dinner than nothing, right? And if your cooking can't lure him back, nothing will." He grinned, and grinned more when Harry blushed uncomfortably at the compliment. "Well done!" He gave Harry a strong clap on the shoulder, his hand, large and warm, squeezing for a moment before releasing him again. "So I guess I'll have to wait for that venison till tomorrow?"  
Harry chuckled. "Yes, you will. And I'll have to go and get more now. You'll have to make do with ordinary pork today."  
Bill sighed dramatically. "The sacrifices one makes for a gorgeous man!"  
Harry laughed.


	4. Chapter 4

Draco stared at his reflection as his mirror tutted at him, then he turned around harshly and strode out of his room.  
"But, dear, you really should do something about that hair!" the mirror cried out after him as he yanked open the door.  
He wasn't fussing. He was _not_ going to fuss. He didn't give a damn about how he looked, and he sure as hell wasn't going to primp for something that wasn't even a date. Because it wasn't, he'd told Potter so. For a moment, he wavered, stopped on the staircase, halfway between his room and the Floo in the drawing room.  
He could just not go. He could just return to his room, spent his evening quietly, safely, with his potions. There was this healing draught he was working on, and he was pretty sure he was heading towards a break-through pretty soon, and he had a good book to read, too... Really, Potter wouldn't be too surprised if he stood him up, him and Weasley. It was ludicrous, anyway, Potter asking him _out_. _Potter_ asking him out. And Weasley. Mustn't forget Weasley. Really, a Weasley asking out a Malfoy? That in itself was so beyond anything like sanity, he couldn't quite wrap his mind around it. And then the two of them, and never mind that they were all men... No, it was completely ridiculous. It was probably some sort of trap. He'd arrive and it would be a joke at his expense or something. His hand tightened on the banister as he wavered, almost turning around to go back upstairs. His father wouldn't like him going out anyway.  
Only... only, _why_ would Potter go to the trouble in the first place? Why would the prodigy of the Auror department waste his no doubt limited free time on humiliating a man he hadn't even seen for six years? And with a scheme that was so unlikely to succeed even a Gryffindor had to realise it? It was the sort of prank they might've pulled on each other in school, had either of them thought of it, but they weren't teenagers anymore. And... Draco smiled bitterly. How could he possibly be more humiliated than he was? He'd lost everything already.  
Potter... Potter had it all, the talent, the dream career, the friends, the gushing adoration of the Wizarding world.  
And Draco?  
He supposed he shouldn't have been surprised when it all came crashing down. Life had been good, had looked to become even better: His father's house arrest was nearing its end, his own career in potions had been starting to take off, the general antagonism was wearing off, the public was starting to forget about how the Malfoy name had fallen from grace. Clearly, he should have known things couldn't stay that way. When had they ever gone his way? Not since he was a boy, not since before he started Hogwarts and met Harry _bloody_ Potter. Though, even with the old resentment kindling dully, he really couldn't blame this latest disaster on him. No, this... this was just life's way of screwing him over, once again, and this time, for good.  
And smack in the middle of it, Potter showed up like some spectre from the past (only much too vibrant and, yes, good-looking to be a spectre) and... asked him on a freaking _date_. And Draco had said yes. Well, not to the date-part, but he had agreed to come, and he would be damned if he was going to hide in his room like a coward.  
Determinedly, he continued his way down the stairs.  
To hell with it, he wasn't going to back down from Potter, and if his father didn't like his leaving the house... well, Lucius Malfoy could just go and perform certain highly improper actions upon himself.

 

He stepped out of the fireplace to be greeted by Potter, who smiled, sincere and welcoming, and clasped his hand in a strong, callused grip after he had dried his fingers on a towel he had slung over one shoulder. He was dressed casually in a pair of light-blue jeans and a black t-shirt. Despite the unassuming outfit, Draco couldn't help but notice how that t-shirt clung to his chest and trim waist, or the play of lean, subtle muscle in his bare arms, and how the jeans rode low on his slender hips.  
If Potter noticed him looking, he didn't give any sign of it. He accepted the bottle of wine Draco had brought as a guest gift, cheerfully invited Draco to take a seat on the couch that stood facing the fireplace and offered him a drink. Draco accepted a glass of water, and took in Potter's and Weasley's place as Potter moved off, back into the kitchen, from where the sounds of sizzling and chopping and a cloud of mouth-wateringly fragrant steam drifted into the living room.  
It was a small flat, from all he could see. There was a window visible through the open kitchen door, with a sink under it and cupboards hanging on the wall next to it. The fireplace took up the middle of one long wall of the rectangular living room, with a coffee table and the couch facing it and a thick carpet covering the worn wooden floorboards. The walls were mostly taken up with bookshelves, though there was another door leading out of it besides the one to the kitchen, in the short wall to the left as one stepped out of the fireplace. None of the furniture was particularly new, it all showed signs of wear, but the place was clean and reasonably tidy. It was... nice. The woods were a medium brown, the couch dark red, and the carpet an almost-matching shape of dark red with black designs. The living room was at the moment only lit by the fire in the fire place and the yellow light streaming in through the open kitchen door, and it all combined into a warm, comfortable atmosphere Draco couldn't help thinking was very Gryffindor. Instead of disdaining it as sentimental and tacky, however, Draco felt himself relax. Something uncoiled in his middle, some knot of tension he hadn't even noticed, and suddenly he realized that stepping out of the Manor felt as if he had released a momentous burden.  
His fingers clenched around the glass of water as his hands started to shake, and he bent to set it down on the coffee table when the trembling wouldn't stop. There was a disconcerting tightness in his throat, a burning in his eyes.  
He swallowed hard. Damn it. What was wrong with him? It was as if three months of collected tension, of moving through day to day, hour to hour, suddenly came crashing down on him all at once. Anguish and pain and fear and anger he hadn't even known were lurking behind every thought suddenly leapt to the surface, ripped through his emotional walls faster than he could rebuild them. He swallowed again, squeezed his eyes shut until sparks danced in the darkness behind his lids, pressed a hand over them and prayed that Potter wouldn't notice before he could get a handle on this.  
All because he stepped foot out of the Manor for the first time since _it_ happened. Only that, and suddenly he realized how trapped he had felt, how those familiar walls had started to close in on him, how what had looked like sanctuary and safety from the inside looked like a prison now that he had stepped out.  
All because Potter treated him... like a person. He couldn't say 'normal', because whatever this was, it wasn't normal between them, but Potter treated him like an equal. There was no fear in his eyes, no hesitation in him when he reached out to touch Draco, no revulsion or disgust hidden in the twist of his lips.  
Suddenly Draco was painfully aware that no one had touched him since it had happened, that even his mother took a step back when he came too close, his mother who had always annoyed and embarrassed him with her hugs, with her insistence that he kiss her good-bye and hello no matter how short or long a time he had been away, his doting, clingy, fussy mother.  
He'd thought, through these three months, of his parents as supportive, of almost self-sacrificing in their efforts to protect him, and they _were_. He didn't know if he could have born to be so close to either of them if it had happened to them, didn't know what he would've done, whether he could've talked to them or looked at them or could've stood to be in the same room with them. Their love and support had humbled him, and he had felt a little lucky, at least a tiny bit, to at least have them. He hadn't known it was possible for someone who _knew_ , worse, someone who had _seen_ , to treat him as Potter did: As if nothing whatsoever was wrong with him. As if there was nothing to fear, nothing to inspire disgust, as if Draco wasn't the sick, twisted abomination he knew he was.  
"Malfoy?" The voice was alarmed, concerned, and very close. _Shit_ , Draco thought, and tried to even out his breathing, tried to choke down the nervous break-down that had him by the throat.  
“Malfoy, are you okay?”  
He dropped his hand from his face at that, eyes springing open to narrow into a glare, and he felt his lips twist into something he told himself was a sneer, not a snarl.  
What sort of idiotic question was that? He was ready to rip into Potter, but then his eyes met the other man's.  
Potter was crouching in front of the couch, his eye level below Draco's, unassuming, non-threatening, not standing over him, looming, as he had expected. He had his face tilted up, looking up at Draco, expression completely open with concern, eyes wide and green, framed by the wire rims of his glasses, greener than any pair of eyes he had ever taken the time to look properly into. Draco felt his anger falter, and he swallowed hard, turned his head away.  
“Just...” His voice was choked and speaking hurt. “Just give me a minute.”  
“Of course,” Potter agreed immediately. A hand settled warmly on his knee, squeezed, and then left again, leaving a cold, empty spot of skin behind. “Can I get you anything? A shot of firewhisky, anything?”  
Draco shook his head, desperate to be left on his own to get a grip on his emotions, desperate not to be on his own, to accept comfort; he didn't know which.  
“Just... a minute,” he repeated.  
“Of course,” Potter said again, and Draco heard him stand, hover for a second, and then his steps moved off towards the kitchen.  
Draco exhaled in relief and allowed himself to curl into himself, arms wrapping around his rips as he pressed himself into the back of the couch. He brought one leg up to rest the heel of his boot on the edge of the couch cushion, and then he just breathed and shook and breathed some more, forehead pressed against his knee.  
It was certainly longer than a minute before the chocking knot in his throat loosened and he was able to relax his shoulders again, to unwrap his arms. He could hear Potter moving around in the kitchen, unhurried, and he was more grateful than he could say for the man's tact in staying away.  
He sat up straight and scrubbed his hands over his face, rubbing away a touch of moisture from the corners of his eyes, and then he ran his fingers through his hair. It was probably futile, and he probably still looked like he'd just skirted the edge of a nervous break-down, but he got up from the couch anyway. He brushed his hands down his robes, straightened his spine, tucked a wayward strand of hair behind his ear, and walked to the kitchen.  
Potter was pouring gold-coloured oil from a tall bottle into a small bowl when Draco entered the warm kitchen, the air rich with the scents of food, but he looked up and smiled when he saw Draco. It was such a bright expression, honest and with just a touch of shyness, that Draco had to blink. He quickly settled his features, allowing only the smallest answering curl of his lips, and looked around the room.  
It wasn't very large, like the living room, but had the same atmosphere of warm comfort. There was the one window, rather large with two panes, over the sink. Counters ran to the left and right along the entire wall, cupboards underneath and hanging above. The right of the room was mostly taken up by a dining table with four chairs, already set with a simple white tablecloth and three place settings, the white porcelain of the plates and the cutlery equally simple, but the large wine-glasses gleamed in the light, as immaculate as any at the Malfoy table. The wall to the right of the door was mostly taken up with a large set of shelves that held odds and ends, newspaper cut-outs and photographs stuck to the frame.  
“So,” Potter said into the silence, and Draco tensed, “how much salad are you going to eat?”  
Draco blinked, stared at Potter's shoulders and the back of his neck as he poured a careful amount of cream from a pitcher into the small bowl, and needed a moment to rearrange his thoughts, since that was the last question he had expected.  
“... Not much,” he answered.  
“Hm,” Potter made, thoughtfully, and nodded to himself. “Thought so. Bill's the same.” He looked over his shoulder and gave Draco a somewhat reproachful look. “The plant-stuff is healthy, you know?”  
Draco couldn't help but smirk at the Gryffindor. “If you say so. Speaking of which, where _is_ Weasley?”  
Potter dropped the reproach in favour of an eye roll and a rueful chuckle.  
“Still at work, though he should be home any minute now.” He plucked a scrap of parchment from the counter and held it out to Draco. Draco smoothed the curling edges out and read the slightly lopsided, generous scrawl. _Running late_ , it said, _will be home by 7.30 at the latest. Promise! Bill_  
“Oh, he promises, does he?” Draco asked idly, feeling his eyebrow arch. “It's impolite to make your guest wait, you know? Especially after you've all but begged the guest to deign you with a visit in the first place.”  
Potter laughed and turned his head to toss a mischievous grin over his shoulder.  
“I know, I know. Hazard of the job, I'm afraid. But he'll be here. I told him we wouldn't safe him any of the venison if he's late. If your illustrious company can't lure him, _that_ will.”  
Draco chose to ignore the comment about his 'illustrious company'.  
“You have quite a confidence in your culinary skills, don't you?”, he observed instead, maybe a touch caustic. Potter just shrugged and turned his attention back to the salad dressing he was mixing.  
“I've never had any complaints, and I've done the cooking for the past two years.”  
“What are you, Weasley's little housewife?”  
This time, his famously sharp tongue actually rated him a glare from this new, improved, equanimous Potter. It was good to know that he could still get a rise out of the man. Potter had controlled far too much of their interaction ever since he'd found out about Draco's condition. Draco leant a hip against the counter, the better for Potter to glare at him, crossed his arms, and adopted his best insolent, arrogant, sexy slouch.  
“I'm no one's _wife_ , Malfoy,” Potter growled. “I cook, he cleans, it works.”  
Despite the glower, Draco saw the quick flick of Potter's eyes as the other man took him in head to foot, and he had to admit, he was starting to enjoy himself. The appreciation, understated but not hidden, was a balm to his bruised ego. And the bantering felt good, familiar.  
He was just considering what sort of retort to give when a whoosh and a green flash of light announced the activation of the Floo.  
They both turned to see a dishevelled Weasley step out. Most of his long, red hair had come loose from his ponytail and was falling around his face in heavy, disorderly strands. Soot was smudged across his face, more than the Floo travel should account for, and it made the claw marks on his face stand out in savage relief. He was carrying a leather jacket over his shoulder, and his arms, bared by the black t-shirt he wore, were streaked with the rust-colour of drying blood.  
Potter immediately stepped towards the door to the living room, a frown of concern drawing his black brows together.  
“Bill? Are you all right?”  
Weasley gave him a quick smile. “Yeah, yeah, I'm fine.” He switched the smile to Draco. “Malfoy. So sorry I'm late, I'm really glad you could make it.” The smile widened, took on a self-deprecating quirk. “I'd offer to shake hands, but as you can see...” He gestured at himself. “I'm a mess. Let me just go and clean up, just give me ten minutes.”  
Draco inclined his head, unsure what to say. It had been years since blood-spattered people stepping out of the fireplace had been normalcy; he didn't miss those days, either.  
“Do you need any help?” Potter asked, his eyes flicking over the blood as well, hand on the towel over his shoulder, ready to sling it off.  
Weasley looked down at himself, then waved him off.  
“No, no, it's not mine, don't worry. Be back in a few.” He took a deep breath through his nose, then grinned. “Smells delicious. Don't start without me!”  
With that, he moved through the living room and out through the door Draco had previously noted, which presumably led to the rest of the apartment.  
Potter, to Draco's surprise, turned his head to exchange a look with him, then shrugged and returned to his place at the kitchen counter. He waved his wand at a double handful of salad leaves and they started to wash themselves in the sink and then shook off the water before floating tamely into a glass salad bowl on the counter. Meanwhile, Potter set an open bottle of wine and a glass pitcher of water on the table and gestured for Draco to take a seat.  
“Help yourself, if you like,” he said with a nod towards the wine. Curious as to Potter's skills in selecting wine, Draco turned the bottle for a look at the label as he settled himself at the table. He was more than a little surprised when he found himself holding a bottle of Pinot Noir from his father's favourite vineyard in Burgundy, a small place run by wizards who were so snobbish about their own bloodline and that of their grapes that they taught little six-year old Draco a lesson about pure-blood arrogance when he visited the place with his father to pick up their yearly supply. In fact, he was certain that just such a bottle, from just that vintage, had made the rounds at the dinner table a few weeks ago. Draco knew his eyebrows were possibly hitting his hairline, but this wine was _expensive_ , the kind of expensive he would have considered out of Potter's range, financially and sophistication-wise.  
Truthfully, and much to his father's dismay, Draco didn't much care about the intricacies of wine. He could appreciate the taste of a good vintage, but he would never wax lyrical about it, and while he couldn't help but pick up enough essentials not to make a fool of himself in polite society, he had never actively pursued the subject. However, any wine that showed up at the Malfoy table, and received nothing but praise from his father, was the best of the best. To find such a bottle at the dinner table of a Potter/Weasley household... that was certainly unexpected.  
“How'd you get your hands on _this_?” As far as he knew, that vineyard only exported some 50 bottles of any given vintage, and most of those found their way into his father's cellar.  
Potter grinned at him. “I take it you approve? There's a small shop in Knockturn Alley. They sell mediocre wine for ridiculous amounts of money to those stupid enough to think they know what they're doing, but the owner really knows his stuff. Since I rescued his shop, _and_ his private wine collection, from the fury of one those customers, he helps me out.”  
Draco stared. “You get this for _free_?”  
Potter laughed, full-throated and delighted. “God, no! He charges every galleon that wine is worth, plus a generous fee for his troubles in importing it. No, I tell him my menu, and he tells me what my wine options are, and then he gets me whatever I pick.”  
“So you didn't actually select this wine yourself?” Draco wasn't sure whether that disappointed or relieved him. Potter shrugged.  
“Depends what you mean. Do I know where to find the best Pinot Noir currently on the market? No. Do I know that I want a Pinot Noir with this venison? Yes.”  
Draco shook his head. “Do you want to impress me that badly, Potter? You must've paid what, a month's pay for this bottle? More?”  
Potter, to his surprise, rolled his eyes at him. “Not everything is about you, you prat. I like to indulge, okay? I don't drink wine often, but if I decide to serve a bottle, I get the best. And I told you, these are some _great_ venison steaks. They deserve the proper wine to accompany them. Also, you're obviously misinformed as to what they pay Aurors these days. That wasn't a month's pay, not entirely.”  
Draco raised an eyebrow at him. “You're full of surprises, Potter.”  
Potter gave him a quizzical look, but Draco just grinned enigmatically at him, and with another eye-roll, Potter turned back to his cooking.  
Draco watched as Potter deftly started on the steaks. He barely let them touch the skillet before he flipped them, and then transferred them onto large plates. Draco felt his mouth water.  
Potter had just put the last steak into the skillet, taking more time with this one, when Weasley entered the kitchen. His hair was back in an orderly ponytail, and he was dressed as casually as Potter, in black jeans and a black t-shirt. Like Potter, he looked inordinately good in it. Draco did his best to keep his eyes on the man's face as he rose to shake hands. Weasley was smiling, a warm, confident smile Draco wasn't used to seeing on Weasleys in general.  
“Again, glad to see you,” Weasley said, voice deep and just as warm as the smile, and, yes, Draco had to admit that it made a pleasant little shiver curl down his spine. Redhead or not, this Weasley was a vast improvement over those he had come across so far, both in regards to manners and to aesthetics. He almost regretted letting go of the man's hand after he'd made some polite reply.  
Weasley clapped Potter on the shoulder for a moment, and then made his way to the place setting at the head of the table, his back to the kitchen wall.  
Moments later, Potter set down a plate with two large steaks in front of Draco, and another in front of Weasley. He settled a plate of roasted potatoes with onions and red bell peppers and the bowl of salad on the table, and then took his own seat across the table from Weasley.  
Weasley offered him the platter of potatoes, and Draco served himself what he hoped was a polite amount (and the smallest he thought he could get away with without insulting Potter) and then watched as Weasley served himself a much smaller helping and then passed the almost full platter to Draco so he could hand it to Potter, who proceeded to empty a good half of it onto his plate without comment. Weasley, in the meantime, filled up Draco's wineglass, asking him with a raise of eyebrows to nod when he had enough.  
“Well, dig in,” he encouraged Draco after he had filled up his own glass and passed the wine on to Potter as well. Since his stomach was about to rumble and embarrass him, Draco picked up his cutlery and cut a polite bite off his meat.  
It was the last polite bite he took. The meat was _perfect_. It took all his willpower to retain some semblance of manners and dignity as he started in on the food in earnest.

About halfway through the meal Draco realized he was enjoying himself. The wine was relaxing him, and at some point during the last half hour Potter had become “Harry” and Weasley was “Bill”. He was laughing with them about a recounting of Potter's recent basilisk encounter, surprised by the man's dry and understated humour.  
“You _stepped_ on it?” he couldn't help asking, still chortling at Potter's apt description of his 'Oh, _shit_!' moment.  
“It was instinct, I swear!” Potter exclaimed. “I know, I know, not exactly what you'd expect from our highly-trained, highly-efficient Aurors, right? But it was just there, and all I could think of was not to look at its head, and it was slithering along the floor... I was worried it was going to vanish down some hole in the wall, never to be seen again, so... I stepped on it.”  
“Very heroic, Harry,” Draco said with mock-gravity. “Very heroic indeed.”  
“Well, I didn't have the Sword of Gryffindor handy this time, now did I?” Potter snarked back.  
“So, you're off the hook about the dead wizard? What was his name?” Weasley asked while he cut a huge bite of his second steak.  
“Weatherby,” Potter answered with a sigh, “Gaius Weatherby. I think it'll be fine. They called me in for a hearing this afternoon, and they want to see the memory in a Pensieve tomorrow morning, with someone from the Wizengamot there, but that's mostly form.”  
“So everyone will witness your heroic defeat of the monster,” Draco couldn't help but tease, snickering. Potter gave him a mild glower, then did one of those eye-rolls that seemed to be his favourite response to Draco's provocations now.  
“Seriously, what sort of idiot breeds basilisks, anyway? Especially if you don't even speak parseltongue!”  
Draco had to agree with that.  
“So,” Potter said, pointing his fork across the table at Weasley, “how was your day? How did you end up in the state you came back in?”  
“Ah,” Weasley sighed, brushing one long, gleaming strand of red hair out of his face and behind his ear, “more idiocy.  
“I was called in to help with cleaning out a property in Germany. Tiny house in the middle of the Black Forest, in a deep ravine, trees towering everywhere, sunlight barely touching the ground, that sort of place. The German Aurors were cleaning up after a Dark witch who'd lived there before they arrested her, but they're short on personnel, and their curse-breaker was some kid barely out of training. There was this mask, creepiest thing I've seen in a long time, made from wood, and detection spells showed that it was badly cursed. Human sacrifice-bad, you know? The Aurors didn't think the kid could handle it, and since the witch'd had strong Voldemort-sympathies, they called up our ministry. The ministry called Gringotts since, as usual, the Department of Mysteries is far too busy for such mundane matters, so I ended up with the job.  
“I Flooed over right away, but the kid'd gotten antsy while all the bureaucracy was going on, and _he_ thought he could handle it. When I stepped out of the Floo, the damn thing was chewing through his arm, the kid was screaming like a stuck pig, and there was blood spraying _everywhere_. It took some quick spell-work to get that thing off him, believe me. They rushed the kid off to the hospital, and I spent the rest of the day breaking the curse on that bloody mask. It was nasty, nasty work.”  
Potter handed Draco the wine bottle without a word and he leaned over to top off Weasley's glass with a healthy swig.  
“So, do you know how the kid is doing?” Potter asked, and Weasley smiled, a little wryly.  
“Yeah, he's going to be fine. He'll be stuck in the hospital for a couple of weeks, but they saved the arm and once the Dark residue wears off, he's going to be good as new. Not too bad a price to pay, all things considered, for his first lesson in real-life curse-breaking.”  
With these good news, they quickly returned to their earlier, lighter conversation, and Potter followed up his excellent cooking with a large platter of cheese and fruit.  
It was really quite unfair how he forced Draco to re-evaluate him, from uncouth Muggle-raised, Gryffindor Auror to civilized, funny wizard who Draco found himself more and more intrigued by as the evening wore on. And when had the man become so bloody attractive? His hair was still a mess, he was still wearing glasses, and he still had the same slight Seeker build he'd always had. But where he'd looked scrawny and awkward and unkempt as a teenager, he was now sexily tousled, well toned, and quietly confident. If they were to stand face to face, he would be the perfect height for Draco to take him into his arms and bury his face in that glossy black hair. And he had the brightest smile Draco had ever seen.  
Ruthlessly, Draco squashed the thoughts. He had no business letting his mind wander in that direction. Yes, Potter had claimed interest, and yes, there was a certain appreciation in the way he looked at Draco, but this _wasn't_ a date, and Draco was in no mood to complicate his life further with interpersonal entanglements, and, seriously, he and _Potter_? Just because the man wasn't the stuck-up, speccy git that he'd been in school didn't mean the idea was anything but ludicrous.  
He shot a look across the table at Weasley, who was wiping a thumb across his lower lip to catch a trickle of peach juice, sucking it off his skin, before he smiled at Potter, the corners of his eyes crinkling. The way he had his head turned displayed the scars to Draco, four faded, jagged lines Draco's mistakes had put there. If they bothered him at all, if he held any resentment towards Draco, he didn't show any sign of it.  
Draco knew it couldn't be that easy to live with so visible a mark. Everyone who had touched a newspaper in the last six years knew where these scars came from. Everyone would also know that Weasley was _not_ a werewolf, but Draco knew how leery people were of anyone who had come into contact that close with one. He wondered whether the scars had affected Weasley's career; whether they had affected his family life.  
If they had, it hadn't dampened his spirits. Draco watched as Weasley teased Potter about something or other, teeth flashing, generous lips pulled into a wide smile, eyes sparkling. A few strands had come loose from his ponytail again and fell around his face, framing strong cheekbones and a determined jaw to great effect. Damn, but the man was a handsome bastard. Taller even than Draco, Potter just about came up to his chin, and he had the shoulders to match. Despite his natural colouring, he was the only one of the three of them sporting a tan, a soft bronze hue to his skin. A smattering of freckles was visible despite that along his bare arms and over the bridge of his nose. Instead of detracting from his looks, they added a touch of boyish charm to his otherwise very mature, very masculine, appeal.  
Draco had always thought his taste in men was as refined as his taste in anything else. Sophistication, polish, beauty, he'd always thought those were the qualities he valued—qualities to complement his own.  
Yet here he was, attracted to two rugged Gryffindors, handsome in a casual way, who wore their professions like a cloak of danger around their shoulders.  
Maybe it was him, Draco reflected. How could he fit his own image of himself as the man of sophistication, the well-bred pure-blood heir, with the slavering beast he turned into once a month? He couldn't. Since he had been bitten, he very much didn't know who he was.  
Or maybe he was fooling himself. After all, Blaise Zabini, epitome of everything he thought he wanted in a man, had only been too willing to become his lover, and where had that gone? A casual fling, a bit of fun, before Draco became bored and moved on, on to more casual flings and one night stands, never quite finding anything he considered worth staying around for, never quite feeling himself fully engaged by the other person.  
Maybe he needed more than one person to hold his interest, he thought, smirking into his wine glass. Weasley looked across the table then and raised his eyebrows as he caught the smirk, but Draco just shook his head slightly, dismissing the implied question.  
Sure, Potter had said he and Weasley would be willing to try some sort of exotic constellation here, but Draco could just see the disaster that was waiting there. He dismissed the thoughts, dismissed the possibility of romantic, or at least sexual, relationships, despite a wistful twinge in his heart. It would be nice to have someone, to not be alone, especially now, but he was far too much of a realist to be fooled by wishful thinking.  
Their dinner was approaching its inevitable end, and Draco, truthfully, had no wish to return to the Manor, but all things must come to an end.  
Then Potter suggested a round of poker.  
The thought of playing poker with gullible Gryffindors was just too much of a temptation, and Draco agreed gladly.

Three hands of poker later, Draco had learned one thing: Harry Potter was a deceitful, lying little bitch. Those big green eyes? That wide-eyed innocence? Lies. It was all lies. Oh, sure, Potter, as expected, didn't have much of a poker face. He didn't do blank, there was always some sort of expression on his features. But he _lied_. Lied with his eyes, with his eyebrows, with the set of his mouth. Looked all flustered, and lied, and let Draco run into the knife that was the _fucking_ full house on his hands. The way he bit his lip, then stopped, as if he'd just given himself away? The way he looked between his cards and the ones on the table, and Draco's face, as if trying to work out whether he had a chance? The way he hesitated before raising, goading Draco to follow along? Yeah. Lies, all of it, and Draco was out a good quarter of his chip fortune, and Potter lolled back in his chair, grinning and smug and self-satisfied like his Animagus form after a big meal of juicy, stupid gazelle. And Weasley? Weasley was obviously trying not to laugh at Draco's fate, and just as obviously knew all about Potter's two-faced nature. The bastard had cut his losses and gotten out when Potter raised, electing to play ever so careful a game.  
Draco glared, and Potter grinned, and it was _so_ on.  
In the end, Potter won, but it was close, and so Draco resigned himself to being, once again, bested by Harry Potter.  
He mentally rolled his eyes at himself. It was only a game of _poker_ , for Merlin's sake! He was relaxed, mellow from the second bottle of wine Potter had broken out at some point, and he was having _fun_. He hadn't felt this good in... a very long time. Far longer than just the last three months, and he realized how much he had isolated himself since the end of the war, realized that he hadn't made any new friends since then.  
He didn't want the evening to end, but it was growing late. Potter was looking a little bleary around the edges, and Weasley was starting to yawn. They lingered a while longer, but there was no denying that the evening was winding down, that it was time for him to leave.  
So he started to say his good-byes, to thank them for the invitation and the meal. They shook hands again, and maybe his reluctance showed through, because suddenly Potter said: “You could stay,” just as he was about to make his way to the fireplace.  
He turned slowly to look at Potter, leaning with one shoulder against the door frame of the kitchen door, rumpled and flushed from the wine and the warmth. He saw Weasley turning as well. Stay? He wasn't quite sure what Potter was getting at. Surely he wasn't suggesting...? Not after Draco had made his disinterest in a relationship, _any_ relationship, perfectly clear?  
Potter raised his hands, palms out. “On the couch. I _meant_ , on the couch.”  
Draco blinked, relaxed in something that felt like relief and disappointment in almost equal measures, and looked at Weasley.  
Weasley, eyebrows high in surprise, first glanced at Potter, then met his eyes.  
“Sure,” he agreed, “if you want to.”  
Draco considered. He _should_ go home. Home to the cold, dark corridors of the Manor, to the badly-hidden pain on his parents' faces, to his familiar, empty room and his own, empty bed. Or he could stay here, in the dim warmth of Potter's and Weasley's flat, this tiny place where they would be sleeping just a few steps away instead of three hallways and two flights of stairs, as his parents were.  
“Yes,” he found himself agreeing, “the couch will be fine.”  
Potter smiled, bright and genuine. “Great! It's comfortable enough, and you can always enlarge it and put another cushioning charm on it. Let me just get you some sheets.”  
He detached himself from the kitchen door and crossed the room. “Come on,” he called over his shoulder, “I'll give you a tour of the rest of the flat while I'm at it,” and so Draco followed him out through the other door.  
It led to a small hallway with a door on one end and a window on the other.  
“That's the front door,” Potter pointed to the door, “and here's the bathroom.” He opened another door across the hallway that led to a small but neat bathroom, a toilet and sink on one side, a bathtub under a window on the other side.  
“That one's Bill's room.” “That one” was another door, a few steps down the hall from the door they had stepped out of, towards the window at the end. “I'm upstairs under the roof,” Potter continued and nodded towards the small, narrow staircase that led upwards next to the front door. He fetched an armful of sheets from a cupboard under the stairs and led the way back into the living room where he began making up the couch with quick, practised motions. Weasley, Draco saw, was in the kitchen, waving his wand over the dirty dishes and directing them into the sink where they proceeded to wash themselves.  
With the decision to stay made, Draco returned to the kitchen and settled himself back at the table. Potter joined them, pulling his own chair out and around a little so he could face both Draco and Weasley's back at the sink. A silence, tinged with awkwardness settled over them, but before it could get too heavy, something bumped softly against the window pane, sending the glass rattling.  
Potter practically _beamed_ , and was out of his seat and opening the window before Draco had even finished turning to look. He unhooked the latch and opened it far enough for the slender body of a gorgeous kneazle to slip in on silent paws. Potter gathered the animal into his arms with a smile Draco could only call besotted.  
“Hey, baby,” he murmured, “I was wondering where you were.”  
The kneazle purred and pressed its head against Potter's jaw, nudging and rubbing, eyes closed in bliss. Potter laughed, then pressed his face into glossy, black and golden fur, hugging the kneazle close.  
After a moment, however, the animal extracted itself, pushing against Potter's chest with snowy-white paws. Potter laughed and set it down.  
“Yes, I know, food now,” he said with affectionate exasperation, and proceeded to fill a bowl with a huge amount of kneazle food, which he then placed before the animal on the floor. All illusion of feline dignity vanished as the animal dove in.  
Draco knew he was staring, but he couldn't quite help it. He'd never seen Potter so... open, had never seen an expression on his face like the one with which he regarded that animal: love, so deep and pure and simple he felt a stab of something like envy for that kneazle.  
Potter looked up then, and caught his eyes, and something must have shown on his face because Potter suddenly grinned ruefully and blushed, ever so faintly.  
“Ah, Draco, meet the third member of our household: Timothy. Timothy, meet Draco.”  
The kneazle flicked an ear in Draco's direction without taking its nose out of the food bowl, and Weasley chuckled.  
“Don't worry, I'm sure he'll give you the time of day once he's done with his food, won't you, Tim-Tim?” The kneazle didn't deign that with an answer.  
“He's beautiful,” Draco admitted. “How'd you come by him?”  
Potter shrugged, and gave the animal another smitten smile. “He came by me, more like. He followed me home from Knockturn Alley one day.”  
Weasley snorted. “And the ugliest, mangiest little critter I ever saw, he was.”  
Potter nodded. “Yeah, he was in bad shape. I thought he was a cat at first.”  
Draco felt his eyebrow rise. “Really? But he's a pure-blood kneazle from the looks of him, he must be worth quite a lot.”  
Potter shrugged again. “Probably. I don't know how he ended up a stray, but he's young, so possibly he was born on the streets, or he was abandoned as a kitten.” His face was soft as he looked down again to where Timothy was licking his whiskers clean of the last crumbs of food. That done, he got to his feet, shook himself out, and then fixed Draco with an intense, golden stare. Ears and whiskers sharply tilted forward, bushy tail-tip swinging from side to side, he marched up to Draco, sniffed at his boot and then rose on his hind legs, front-paws braced against Draco's shin to stare up at him some more. Draco sat very still and answered the stare.  
Then Timothy casually turned his head to the side, blinked and dropped back down, dismissing Draco entirely in favour of returning to Potter. He crouched in front of the man, and then launched himself up, jumped into Potter's arms as if there was no doubt that Potter would catch him... which he did, of course.  
“Well, it seems you have the kneazle stamp of approval,” Potter informed Draco, grinning, even as his fingers started to rub behind on large ear.  
Draco was somewhat startled by the kneazle's behaviour, since it was common knowledge that most animals wouldn't react well to a werewolf's presence. But then, kneazles were known for their exceptional intelligence, and this one had more force of personality than any kneazle Draco had ever met before.  
With the dishes clean and the kneazle home, it seemed it was time to call it a night. Potter and Weasley retired to their respective rooms, Potter still with the kneazle in his arms, and Draco made himself comfortable on the couch... which really was quite comfortable and roomy. The fire was banked, glowing a muted, dark red, the sheets smelled of unfamiliar detergent, and Draco could hear, very distantly, the sounds of London from outside. It was very, very different from any place, any bed he had ever slept in, very different from the dead silence of the Manor at night and his own satin sheets, and he wouldn't have it any other way. He fell asleep quickly, deeply, feelings of safety and loneliness mingling oddly.

He woke to the sound of muted voices and the smell of tea and bacon. When he poked his head into the kitchen, he found Potter and Weasley there, sitting at the kitchen table, the grey light of an early, over-cast London morning seeping in through the window. Timothy the kneazle was crouched over his food bowl by the counter, muzzle buried deep.  
“Oh, sorry,” Potter said softly as they both looked up from their tea cups, “did we wake you?”  
Draco shrugged, since they had, but he didn't particularly mind.  
“What time is it?”  
“Seven-ish,” Weasley answered, voice still sleep-rough, and gestured at the chair Draco had occupied the evening before. “Want breakfast, since you're awake anyway?”  
Draco took in the spread of toast, butter, scrambled eggs, fried bacon, and steaming tea, and realized he really did want breakfast. Potter rose for a moment to fetch him a plate and cutlery, and Weasley poured him a cup of tea. Draco nodded his thanks, added milk and a dash of sugar, and breathed in the aroma appreciatively.  
A comfortable silence settled over them as they ate, only broken occasionally when one of them requested the tea pot or the butter dish.  
Eventually, Potter sat back with a sigh, ran a hand through his hair, and yawned widely, while Weasley finished his toast and Draco drained the last sip from his tea-cup.  
“I guess I should go get ready for work,” Potter mused, and pulled a grimace as he scratched at the black stubble along his jaw line. “What about you, are you going straight home, or are you going to grab a few more hours of sleep?”  
Draco considered for a moment, while Weasley started to clear the table with lazy flicks of his wand.  
“I think I'll sleep a little longer, if you don't mind,” he answered. Truthfully, he wasn't in a hurry to get back to the Manor, where he'd have to face his parents... who might or might not have noticed that he hadn't come home the night before, and might or might not comment on it.  
“Sure, no problem, stay as long as you like. Just let that one out the window before you leave, okay?” Potter nodded at the kneazle, who was now thoroughly engrossed in a tongue-bath.  
“Okay.” Draco nodded, and Potter left him alone with Weasley to head to the bathroom, presumably.  
“I could do with a few more hours myself,” Weasley told him with a crooked smile.  
Draco shrugged. “Well, I keep my own hours. Brewing isn't really suited to a regular schedule. Sometimes I'm up for most of two or three days to keep an eye on something, and sometimes...” He shrugged again.  
“Must be nice, to be your own boss.”  
“It is,” Draco agreed. “Well, if my father had his way, I would be helping him to manage the estate. Brewing potions for money smacks a bit too much of actual work for his taste.”  
Weasley chuckled. “I can imagine. It doesn't _quite_ fit with the pure-blood image, does it?”  
“No.” Of course, _he_ didn't quite fit the pure-blood image anymore, now did he? Draco stared at the dregs in his tea-cup as the reality of his situation settled once more, dark and heavy, over him. He had... no, not forgotten about it, never that, but it had seemed a bit more distant for a few hours.  
“Sorry.”  
Draco looked up, startled, to find Weasley looking at him with contrition. Draco frowned a little.  
“Why are you apologizing?”  
“Well, judging by your face, I said something wrong. So, sorry.”  
Draco closed his eyes for a moment, exhaled, and then gave Weasley a direct look and waved it off.  
“No need, please. It's just... I'm just not very good company these days, I'm afraid.”  
At that, Weasley's lips curled up again in a grin.  
“Not true,” he disagreed cheerfully. “You're great company, don't let anyone tell you otherwise.”  
Draco blinked, and, yes, Weasley was flirting with him. Not strongly, nothing obtrusive, nothing he needed to feel threatened by, but the look in his eyes wasn't innocent. The possibilities were there in Weasley's eyes, the appreciation, just as they had been with Potter. This was a man who was attracted to him, that look told Draco, a man who wasn't going to do anything about it if Draco didn't signal his willingness, but a man who wasn't going to hide it, either. For just a moment, Draco was tempted. Then he raised an eyebrow, and smirked a little, acknowledgement and dismissal both. Weasley got it, and gave him a wry grin in return, before he pushed himself to his feet.  
“Well, I better get ready, too.”  
With Potter and Weasley both Flooed of to their respective places of employment only a few minutes later with handshakes and smiles, silence settled over the flat, and for a moment, as he lay back down on the couch and pulled the covers over himself, Draco was tempted to reconsider and just Floo home as well. Then there was an imperious “Meow!” and Potter's kneazle leaped onto the couch. Draco's first reaction was to push the animal off, because, an animal in bed? That was just not hygienic; but then he settled his fingertips on the soft fur and tentatively started to scratch the kneazle behind it's large ears, just under the white spot. Timothy rewarded him with a loud purr and planted his chin on top of his front legs. Draco could feel the living weight of the animal on the covers next to his side, amazingly heavy for such a small creature, and he could even feel the slight warmth the kneazle was emitting. He settled down with a yawn, and in short order, was back asleep, his knuckles resting against soft, silky fur.


	5. Chapter 5

Broodingly, Draco poked at the brussel sprouts on his plate. The silence over the table was tense and uncomfortable. He was reasonably sure that his parents knew that he hadn't come home the night before, but so far, neither his mother nor his father had said anything about it. He speared another bite of meat and forced himself to chew. Merlin, it was disgusting. There was too much gravy, it was too salty and it was so well-done it basically fell apart on his tongue. Intellectually he knew that that was just the way he had preferred it, that the Malfoy kitchen elves were renowned for their cooking, but... that was then, and this was now, and he realized that Potter's cooking had been the most delicious thing he had tasted in three months.  
He gave up on lunch, pushed his half-eaten plate aside and stood.  
“If you'll excuse me, Mother, Father, I find I'm not that hungry.”  
He could see the pain in his mother's eyes, the way she noted how he had barely touched his vegetables, again, another little sign of his condition.  
“Draco, please come see me in my study if you have a moment,” his father said stiffly, and Draco nodded his agreement. After all, as politely as it was worded, he recognized one of his father's orders when he heard it.  
He left the dining hall and made his way to his potions lab, hoping to bury himself in his work.

As it turned out, that was futile. As noon wore into afternoon, he found himself more and more distracted by his growling stomach and memories of the evening before... primarily, Potter's delicious cooking. Merlin, what he wouldn't do for one bite of that steak! Disturbingly enough, he found himself also wistfully thinking of the company, of the acceptance, the lack of judgement they had shown him. And, worst of all, he found his thoughts traitorously dwelling on Potter's slim hips, Weasley's broad shoulders, the callused touch of their hands, the intriguing glow of mischief and challenge in Potter's clear, green eyes, the broad, generous flash of Weasley's grin... He ran his hand over his face. That... wasn't supposed to have happened. He had told Potter the truth: He was in no mood for relationships of any kind at the moment, and least of all something that promised to be as messy and complicated as some form of strange three-way entanglement with two Gryffindors. Seriously, even if it was just sex, and with Gryffindors, who the hell knew?; with _Potter_ and a Weasley involved, how could it be anything but a fundamentally bad idea? It was the last thing he needed. He had enough to deal with as it was.  
Of course, his damn libido disagreed. He never would've thought that the day would come where he would find _Potter_ attractive. And a Weasley? Seriously? A _Weasley_?  
But there it was. Potter, Merlin curse him, had somehow managed to grow up into a handsome bastard. And Weasley? Red hair? Check. Freckles? Check. And still... Draco flashed back to the image of Weasley, entering the living room again this morning, in the process of tying his hair back. Loose, it flowed around his face and shoulders in a heavy, glossy sheet, glowing in the muted fire-light as if lit from within, a dark ruby glow shot with sparks of gold. Then he gathered it up to tie it with swift, economic hands, his black t-shirt moulding itself to his chest, slipping up to reveal a thin strip of flat stomach... and that was when Draco realized he was staring, and quickly turned his eyes away.  
Yes, Bill Weasley was a very different matter from the little brother of his Draco had despised in school. Tall, muscular without bulk, charming, confident, handsome and flirtatious... Draco certainly didn't mind _his_ attention.  
He pressed the heels of his palms into his eye-sockets as if that could dispel the memories. His stomach growled. He hesitated another moment, then grabbed a scrap of parchment and scrawled a message. They had said he was always welcome, hadn't they?  
He stood to head to the owlery, and decided to see his father on his way back. He might just as well get it out of the way.

His father, as expected, was rather displeased that he had left the house.  
“Both of them know about my condition, Father,” Draco pointed out and forced himself not to bare his teeth.  
Not that that did much good. Draco winced as his father reminded him that he merely had his best interests at heart, and that, after all, he didn't really know why Potter and Weasley should be trustworthy. And since Draco could hardly answer “Because they want into my pants, Father”, well, that only left him to point out that they were Gryffindors, and therefore hardly the type to engage in that kind of scheming. Then, of course, his father had to go and point out that Potter was an _Auror_ , that he was considered a shoo-in for next Head-Auror and special protégé of Robarts in Ministry circles, in fact, and that the Ministry's position on werewolves was anything but benevolent, no matter what sort of lip-service they paid to recent calls for “more tolerance.”  
For a moment, Draco felt a sickening, lurching sensation of doubt in his stomach. Then he remembered the bright smile and firm, unhesitating clasp of Potter's callused fingers, and told himself not to be an idiot. He _knew_ Potter was an Auror. Hadn't he just wondered this morning at how Potter gained a certain aura of danger and authority when he swung his Auror robes over his unassuming jeans-and-t-shirt outfit? So he pointed out that Potter had already given his consent to keeping his secret despite whatever stance the Ministry might be having, and the longer he kept it, the worse it would look for him if he did speak up. Besides, it was _Potter_ , who'd never given any indication that he cared much for the Ministry's authority where it didn't agree with his own opinion, and who'd been friends with Remus Lupin, possibly the most famous werewolf ever.  
He finally parted with his father on terms of mutual disagreement. But shortly after he had returned to his lab, he received an answer to his owl. It seemed Potter would be delighted to have him over for dinner again, even though he warned him that there was merely pork on the menu tonight.

It was, in a way, a very different dinner than the one the night before. Weasley was sprawled along the couch, a book resting on one thigh, when Draco Flooed in, and he could hear Potter move around the kitchen.  
Weasley gave him one of those bright grins, and swung his stocking feet off the couch to make room.  
“Hey there. Knew Harry's cooking would lure you back! Have a seat.” He gestured invitingly at the free spot on the couch.  
“Was that the Floo?” Potter asked, appearing in the kitchen doorway with a towel slung over his shoulder again and wand in hand. “Hey, Draco.” Potter looked just as delighted to see him as Weasley did, and Draco felt his mood lift.  
He took the offered seat after they had exchanged greetings and Potter moved back into the kitchen.  
“So I take it there were no unforeseen accidents today?” he asked Weasley by way of making conversation. Weasley chuckled.  
“No, not today. There's this new dig in Egypt, though, and we're getting in crates of artefacts, most of them cursed. What with my experience with Egyptian curses, most of those will come my way; I expect I'll be busy for the next few months.”  
“Egyptian curses?” Draco asked, intrigued. “How do you know about those?”  
“Oh, you don't know? I used to live and work in Egypt as a curse-breaker before the war. I came back for the war, to be more active in the Order, and, well...” He shrugged. “I somehow never left again.”  
It was a bit disorienting to realize that Weasley had already had a _career_ before the war. Before the war, for Draco, meant his early school-days, the time when he was, basically, still a child. But then, Weasley had already been out of Hogwarts, graduated, when he and Potter started. He'd gone to school with Bill Weasley's younger brothers, and there were a lot of them. How old was he, anyway? Draco wasn't sure, but it had to be more than a seven year difference. And wasn't there another Weasley brother who had been out of school by the time Potter and he started?  
Draco shook off that line of thought, because who cared, anyway? They were all adults, and it wasn't like they were Muggles, with their ridiculously short life-spans.  
They talked, Draco enquiring about the particulars of Egyptian curses, until Potter called to tell them the food was done.  
The table was laid more simply this time, without a tablecloth, which struck Draco as rather odd. It called to his mind his days in Hogwarts, because there they had eaten from plates set directly on the scarred wood, too. The food was as good as the day before, though, and there was the same generous amount of it. The beverage of choice tonight was Butterbeer. It was informal, even more so than the night before, easy and comfortable, and in no time at all Draco found himself relaxed and laughing and in just as good a mood as the day before. They ate, and they talked, about their work, about Potter's hearing which had gone just fine and found him innocent of any wrong-doing, about his aggravation at the press statement he had to give after, with Weasley laughing and teasing at his grumbling.  
Draco ended up staying on the couch again. At some point in the night, he was joined by Timothy, who curled up on his chest and purred him back to sleep.

It became a pattern after that. After a week, he didn't even feel the need to ask whether he could come over, he simply Flooed in around seven, and Potter continued to feed him, evening and mornings. Both of them appeared to be consistently happy to see him, comfortably including him in their evening routine. He hadn't actually slept a single night in his own bed, and he couldn't say that he missed it. Timothy kept him company in the morning most days when he grabbed a few more hours of sleep after breakfast, and said good-bye with a purr and a butt of his head against Draco's hand when he let him out, and then Draco returned to his potions and the cold, unhappy atmosphere of the Manor.  
By now, Draco knew his parents couldn't have missed the fact that he wasn't coming home in the evenings. He could see that his mother was anxious, worried for him, and the pinched look on his father's face told him that he was trying very, very hard not to think about what his son could be up to during the nights he spend away from home.  
Draco hadn't tried particularly hard to keep his sexual preferences a secret from his parents for years now. He wasn't sure about his mother, but he was almost certain his father suspected. He had never openly addressed the issue, but there were the occasional looks he gave Draco, tight-lipped and severe, looks Draco answered with a stare of his own, a stare that dared his father to speak out, to challenge him on this. But he never did.  
Of course, it wasn't as if Draco had much of a sex-life, anyway. He probably could count the one-night stands he'd had since the war on the fingers of both hands, and the two “relationships” (and he applied that term loosely) he'd had... well, they didn't really bear thinking about.  
Maybe it was this lack of provocation that had kept his father from making an issue out of his son's deviant sexuality. That, and he surely assumed Draco was, in the end, going to do his duty as sole heir to the Malfoy name and Black blood-line, and marry some appropriate pure-blood witch and produce an heir, if only out of duty. It was what he had been raised to, after all. He had grown up with the expectation of a more-or-less arranged marriage, had always known that _love_ wouldn't be a defining factor in his family life.  
Unfortunately for his father, the war had not only destroyed his innocence, but also his childish conviction of his father's god-like infallibility and a lot of the foundations of belief he had grown up with. It had opened his eyes to the relativity of belief, to the workings of propaganda and ideology, and he had realized that that was what he had been raised with, that other positions were possible on topics he considered a matter of course.  
So he had shaken off his teenage anxiety about his lack of attraction to the female part of the population with a certain amount of resignation, because truthfully, that teenage angst didn't quite measure up to the very real terror of immanent torture and death.  
Of course, he suspected it was only a matter of time before his father _would_ finally make an issue of it, because if his only son wasn't entirely straight that was one thing, a thing to be delicately ignored in the interests of tact and decency, but if his only son consorted with _Potter_ , who was, Saviour status notwithstanding, still a Muggle-raised half-blood, or, worse, a blood traitor? Yes, that was quite another matter entirely.  
But as long as his father held his silence, Draco was perfectly happy to oblige him and go about his visits quietly.

One evening, he arrived to find Bill on the couch perusing a tightly-printed Muggle sheet of paper, and no Potter in sight. He raised an eyebrow in question.  
“Hello, Draco,” Bill greeted with a chuckle at the eyebrow. “He got held up on some case, won't be back for at least a few more hours, so we'll have to feed ourselves.”  
“Uh-huh,” Draco answered, and even he heard that he sounded extremely doubtful. “Can you cook?”  
Bill laughed. “God, no! No, this calls for take-out.” He waved the sheet of Muggle paper at Draco. “There's a great Thai place a few streets over. It's not Harry's cooking, but it's about as good as restaurant food gets to our tastes.”  
“Take-out?” Draco asked, nonplussed.  
Bill stared at him, then shook his head with a chuckle. “How about it, Draco, fancy a walk on the Muggle side of things?”  
“Well, if it gets me fed...”  
“You only really come here for Harry's food, don't you?” Bill accused him.  
“Of course,” Draco dead-panned. “Why else?”  
Bill laughed again and rolled his eyes. “Sit your snobby pure-blood arse down and pick your poison.” He held the paper out to Draco.  
“Dear me, I'm inspired with confidence when you phrase it like that,” Draco told him dryly, but took a seat, and the sheet. Bill leaned over to study the list, the menu Draco realized, with him, one of his arms thrown across the back of the couch. His pony-tail fell over his shoulder, gleaming. Draco could faintly feel the warmth of his body, smell his after-shave, was aware of the space between them. The man's sheer, physical presence chased a warm tingle down his spine, and he didn't miss the way Bill's eyes tracked the movement of his fingers as he brushed a wayward strand of hair behind his ear. Their eyes met for a split-second, and Draco knew that Bill knew that he had noticed. He dropped his eyes to the paper in his hand, thin and cheap, and started to peruse the unfamiliar list of dishes. None of it meant anything to him, and the small explanation of ingredients underneath didn't make much difference. Pork and peanuts? What sort of combination was that?  
“You've never had take-out, have you?” Bill asked, and damn him, he sounded amused. Draco scowled at him.  
“No.”  
Bill laughed in that good-natured way of his, taking any sting out of the teasing, and clapped him on the shoulder for a moment. “Oh, don't scowl! Neither did I, before I went to Egypt. It's a Muggle thing. Basically, they're restaurants who prepare your food really quickly, and then they pack it up and you take it to eat at home or wherever. Or you can order from home and they deliver it to you for a small fee. A lot of these places are Asian, Chinese, Thai or Indian. So, you feeling up for a little adventure?”  
Draco sighed and brandished the paper. “This doesn't tell me anything,” he admitted.  
“It doesn't have to. Just pick something that sounds good. Stay away from anything that's marked hot 'n spicy, though. It's too strong, at least that's my experience.”  
Not entirely convinced of the whole idea, Draco returned to perusing the menu. He finally settled on some sort of beef and vegetable dish that didn't sound too exotic.  
“Let's go, then.” Bill rose and grabbed his leather jacket from the arm of the couch. Draco looked down at his robes with a raised eyebrow.  
“What?” Bill asked with the teasing tone back in his voice. “You need any help to transfigure that into something more Muggle?”  
“I think I'll manage, thanks,” Draco shot back and took out his wand to transfigure his robes into a long coat, the sort of which he thought Muggles wore. Thankfully, he was wearing Muggle-style trousers under his robes, since he wasn't old-fashioned enough to feel comfortable in nothing but robes.  
Weasley looked him over with a critical eye, and then nodded. “That'll work. A bit old-fashioned, maybe, but it suits you.” He grinned.  
Draco snorted and slipped his wand back into its holster up his sleeve.  
They left the flat through the front-door, which Draco hadn't yet done before. They descended a staircase to arrive in a hallway that seemed to run through the width of the house, a door on either side. Weasley made for what was obviously the back-door, and they stepped out into Muggle London.  
The sky overhead was dark, or as dark as it ever got, because the city before them was alight with bright Muggle lights in many colours. And the noise...  
They walked over hard, smooth, dark pavement, not the cobbles Draco was used to, into the maze of Muggle streets. Cars rushed by noisily and people passed them with barely a glance. There was a smell in the air, not entirely pleasant, and very different from what Draco knew, somehow oily and smoky.  
The restaurant was a small place, full of cooking smells and white light, and Draco watched as their food was prepared, trying to hide his fascination, while Bill flirted with the pretty Asian girl at the counter who had taken their orders.  
They returned back to the flat laden with white cartons which Bill spread out on the kitchen table. Draco took his first bite with a bit of apprehension, then started eating in earnest. It was sweeter than he had expected, and, yes, the meat was too well done, but the strong, exotic flavour made up for that.

They were curled up at opposite ends of the couch after dinner, both of them with a book of their own, when the Floo flared to life and Potter staggered out onto the hearth rug. He seemed paler than usual, with dark shadows under his eyes, his hair a stringy, filthy mess, his robes smeared with dirt. There were faint pink scratches on his throat, and he smelled, Draco wrinkled his nose, like stagnant water and death.  
“What happened to you?” Bill asked, getting to his feet.  
Potter waved him off tiredly. “Long story. Is that food I smell? God, I'm starving! And I need a shower...”  
“Go clean up,” Bill told him, shooing him towards the hallway. “We've got your Thai chicken under a stasis charm in the kitchen.”  
“You're a life-saver!” Potter groaned and trotted off, shrugging out of his robes with a grimace as he went.  
Twenty minutes later, he settled on the couch between them, much cleaner and smelling much more pleasant, with the carton of food on his lap and started shovelling down the food while he told them about his day. His hair was just beginning to stick up in its usual disorderly fashion, and he was gesturing with his fork as he spoke. Draco had to suppress the strongest urge to reach out and try to flatten that hair down again.  
It seemed Potter had taken a dive into his target's garden pond today, after a lengthy duel in the backyard—a garden pond full of inferi, which had almost managed to drown him before his partner came to his rescue. Unfortunately, that rescue had left him open to attack, and when Potter crawled his way out of the pond, the Dark wizard had Creevey under the Cruciatus. Potter had dispatched the wizard while he was busy torturing his partner, vomited up a few lung-fuls of pond water, dropped the wizard off at the Ministry and Creevey at St Mungo's. There, he had made sure Creevey was going to be fine, had suffered them to check him over too and treat his inferi scratches, and then he had escaped.  
“Escaped?” Draco asked, arching an eyebrow in amusement. Potter nodded vigorously, chewed another bite of noodles, and swallowed.  
“Yeah. They would've kept me overnight, too, if I'd given them half a chance to. Healers, they always fuss.”  
“You almost _drowned_ ,” Bill pointed out. Potter scowled, and shrugged.  
“I'm _fine_ , Bill! All I needed was a shower, and food, and some sleep.” He sighed heavily. “And tomorrow, it's going to be all paperwork again.” From the sound of it, he would rather be out chasing more Dark wizards, Draco thought with a smile.  
“You'll survive,” he commented dryly, and Harry gave him a quick grin around his fork.

Something woke Draco up that night. He blinked and frowned into the darkness of the living room for a moment, confused. Then he heard a soft clink of china from the kitchen, and realized he could smell tea. A quick _tempus_ told him it was half past four in the morning. He heaved himself up from the couch and shuffled to the kitchen, to find the candles burning and Potter at the kitchen table, apparently half-asleep over a cup of tea. He looked up when Draco entered.  
“Oh,” he said softly, looking contrite, “did I wake you? Sorry.”  
Draco frowned. “What are you doing up? Don't you have to go to work in about three hours?”  
Potter nodded and rubbed at his eyes, pushing his glasses up. “Yeah.” He grimaced. “I woke up. Nightmare. Don't think I'll be able to get back to sleep.”  
Draco sat down at the table and poured himself a cup of tea.  
“A nightmare, huh? Any particular reason for it?”  
Potter leaned back in his chair and pulled off his glasses, dropping them on the table. He rubbed at his eyes and the bridge of his nose again and then looked at Draco, a bit unfocused. Draco wondered how well he could see without his glasses. This was the first time that he could ever recall seeing the other man without them. He looked different, more open, more vulnerable, his eyes even larger and greener without any frames to distract from them, his cheekbones more pronounced, and Draco again had to fight an urge to reach out and touch him.  
“It's the inferi,” Potter admitted quietly. “God, I hate these things! They always remind me of some bad stuff, of the war, and... that was his kid down there, Draco.” His eyes looked haunted, full of pain. “His family went missing a while ago, and we suspected that he had something to do with it, but... God, Draco, what sort of person turns their wife and child into inferi and keeps them in their fucking garden pond?”  
Draco swallowed, suddenly queasy. Wordlessly, he reached out a hand, and Potter, after a moment, grasped it, cold, strong fingers holding on tight. They both had seen this evil before, this inexplicable cruelty that left them helpless and baffled and angry.  
They sat, for a moment that seemed to stretch far larger than the time it took up. Then Draco squeezed the fingers in his grasp.  
“You should sleep,” he said. “You have to get up for work soon.”  
Potter looked conflicted. “I know,” he admitted. “But I'll just end up tossing and turning, and then I'll feel worse than I do now.”  
“What if you stay down here?” Draco suggested. “You can have the couch. I'll just read and keep you company.”  
“You'd do that?” Potter sounded surprised, and pleased, and there was the faintest trace of a blush rising in his cheeks. Draco rolled his eyes at him.  
“Of course I'd do that, otherwise I wouldn't offer. I can sleep later, you're the one who has to get up. Come on.” He tugged on the hand in his, and Potter followed as he drew him to his feet and into the living room. There, he picked up his book from the floor and spelled the coals back to a small, softly flickering fire, enough so he'd be warm and could read, while Potter crawled under the blankets and stretched out on the couch. Draco settled himself on the carpet with a cushion and a cushioning charm, his back comfortably resting against the edge of the couch.  
Potter yawned, huge and jaw-cracking, just as soon as his head touched the pillow, and then blinked very slowly. “G'night,” he mumbled, and was, from the looks of it, asleep before Draco could even reply. Draco found himself smiling at the man, and pulled a face. Merlin help him, what if someone saw him with such a silly expression on his face? And Potter was not cute, or _adorable_ , or any such thing, and he had no desire to run his fingers through black hair. Resolutely, he turned to his book, and lost himself in the intricacies of healing potions.

He woke up with an uncomfortable ache in his neck and shoulders, his head pillowed on the couch cushions and blanket by Potter's stomach, and Bill crouched in front of him with a questioningly amused look in his eyes. Draco sat up straight again, rolled his shoulders with a grimace and tried to smooth out the hair on the side of his head he had been sleeping on. He cast a look at Potter, to find him deeply and peacefully asleep, covers pulled up to his nose so a black, hedgehog-like mess of hair was most of what was visible of him. (' _Not_ cute!', Draco reminded himself.)  
He got to his feet stiffly, and moved into the kitchen with Bill. The cushioning charm must have worn off at some point while he was asleep, and all his limbs felt somewhat oddly attached.  
“He came down here in the middle of the night,” he explained quietly as Bill carefully moved Potter's glasses from the table, where they still sat, to the counter, and cast a spell at the teapot to re-heat the tea. “Said he had a nightmare. He was all set on staying up, but... well, he needs the sleep,” Draco said with a vague wave of his hand in the direction of the living room and the couch. “Does he do that often?”  
Bill shrugged as he started to set the table for breakfast, setting the plates down softly so as not to make too much noise. “Occasionally. I think it's been getting better, but every now and then, something sets him off.” He smiled at Draco. “That was really considerate of you, letting him sleep on the couch.”  
Draco, to his dismay, felt the first burn of a blush on his cheeks. Gruffly, he waved Bill's words away. “There's nothing very glorious in offering a man his own couch, Weasley. And I can sleep whenever I want. He's the one who has hours to keep. Speaking of which, doesn't he need to get up?”  
Bill gave him a slanted grin that was just a bit too indulgent for Draco's taste, but nodded. “Yeah, if we want anything for breakfast, he does. Why don't you go wake him, I'll finish up here.”  
Draco nodded and made to move out of the kitchen.  
“Oh, wait, take these with you,” Bill said and handed him Potter's glasses, which was just as well, because Potter's first move upon being shaken awake by Draco was to reach out an arm and muzzily wave it about in the empty air next to him. Then he seemed to realize he wasn't where he expected to be and blearily squinted up at Draco. Draco chuckled and handed him his glasses. Potter unfolded them and pushed them up his nose, and then blinked at Draco.  
“Thanks,” he said, a soft, sleepy scratch in his voice that did things to Draco's stomach he wasn't willing to acknowledge. “What time is it?”  
On hearing that it was quarter to seven, he swore and swung his legs off the couch.  
“Why didn't you wake me earlier?”  
Draco shrugged, a bit embarrassed. “I sort of fell asleep as well. Bill woke me just a few minutes ago.”  
Potter stood and ran a hand through his scruffy hair. “Guess I'll have to skip the shower. Come on, I'll get breakfast started before Bill tries.”  
His words took a moment to filter through to Draco's brain as he stared at Potter, warm and scruffy and freshly-woken, in a faded t-shirt and boxer shorts and nothing else. True, he had been wearing just the same the night before, and Draco had peripherally registered it, but... Well. His brain suddenly went into an entirely inappropriate direction even while Bill yelled: “I heard that!” from the kitchen, and Potter chuckled, the corners of his eyes crinkling and his teeth flashing white for a moment.  
By the time he entered the kitchen behind Potter, Draco had wrestled his impulses back under control, and he was almost not at all tempted to touch Potter, and he was almost not looking at his arse.


	6. Chapter 6

Harry smiled upon Flooing home and finding Draco on the couch, a book in his hands and a roll of parchment with a quill and inkwell on the coffee table. He hadn't expected anything else, really. Draco had become a familiar presence in their flat, but he felt a warm, pleased, almost giddy elation whenever he was around, and, yes, Harry was very much aware that he was nursing a major case of lust for the other man.  
He was looking especially good tonight, in a set of fine, smoke-grey robes that fit him perfectly and set off his pale, pale hair. At some point during the last two weeks, Draco had gotten that trim he was so sorely in need of, and now his hair framed his face in long, artful strands where it slid free of the clasp at his neck. It was only shoulder-length in the back, chin-length in front, not the long mane Bill's was, but Harry secretly loved it. It fell just right around Draco's face, and he always had the strongest urge to run his fingers through it, take out that clasp, see whether it felt as silky as it looked.  
He did no such thing, of course.  
Instead, he greeted him cheerfully and leaned over the parchment to see what Draco was working on.  
“Still the healing potion?”  
Draco sighed and ran a hand over his face. “Yes. This is turning out to be more difficult than I thought.”  
“Well, if it was easy to make them taste anything other than utterly disgusting, I'm sure someone would have figured it out before.” Then he noticed how tired Draco looked. “Are you okay?”  
Draco blinked at him, and frowned slightly. “Yes, why?”  
“You look tired.”  
Draco looked away and shrugged. “I didn't sleep all that well.”  
Harry set down his groceries on the floor and took a seat on the couch next to Draco. “Any reason why? Everything okay?”  
“Everything's fine.” Draco scowled at him.  
Harry took a deep breath. “Okay, what's up?”  
“Nothing! Quit pestering me, Potter!”  
Harry jerked back and narrowed his eyes, unaccountably hurt by the sharp tone, and got to his feet again.  
“Well, excuse me for caring!” he spat back, and reached to heave the groceries back into his arms. He was half-way to the kitchen when Draco's voice stopped him.  
“Wait.”  
Reluctantly, he turned to look over his shoulder. Draco's shoulders were slumped, and exhaustion was written clearly across his face.  
“I... I didn't mean to snap, okay?”  
It wasn't an apology, but after two weeks of exposure to Draco Malfoy, Harry knew that Draco wasn't one for saying sorry outright. So he set his groceries back down and moved back to the couch.  
He waited silently while Draco stared at his hands, loosely folded in his lap.  
“It's the new moon,” he said finally, voice quiet.  
“Huh?”  
“The new moon. It's today.”  
“Yes?” Harry didn't quite know what Draco was getting at. The new moon meant that Draco was the least influenced by the lycanthropy at the moment, that he should be at his most calm, his most human.  
“It means that next week, I'll have to start brewing Wolfsbane again. And the week after that...”  
He didn't finish the sentence, and Harry hadn't missed, during the last two weeks, that Draco avoided the topic of his lycanthropy whenever he possibly could.  
“You're not still set on spending the full moon alone, are you?”  
Draco shrugged, not looking at Harry.  
“Hey.” Harry rested a hand on Draco's arm. “You're not planning to lock yourself up again in the Manor, are you? We'll go run together, like last time.”  
A muscle jumped in Draco's jaw as he clenched his teeth.  
“We shouldn't,” he said. “It's not safe.”  
“Oh, nonsense! Between the Wolfsbane and my animagus form, it'll be fine! And if you don't want to stay on the Manor grounds, we can Apparate to the highlands or the moors, somewhere deserted where no one's around.”  
“It's foolish!” Draco argued. “Merlin, last time I attacked my own mother!”  
“And Bill and I stopped you. Draco... It's harder to control yourself if you feel trapped and miserable. And it was only your third transformation, you'll get better with practise.” He had meant to be reassuring, but Draco flinched, and shook his hand off, and hugged himself.  
“I don't want to practise!” he choked out. “I don't want any transformations, I don't want _this_! I want it to be over, I want to be myself again!”  
“You _are_ yourself.”  
“No, I'm not! Merlin, Harry, do you know the things I sometimes think about, the things I want to do?! How I have to force myself to act like a person and not like an animal? How I want to growl and snarl at people, or go for their throats–? I'm not myself! That's not how I used to be! Hell, I can't even _eat_ like a wizard!”  
“So you've changed,” Harry said. “So you're different. So what, Draco? This is you _now_.”  
Draco's head came up, an expression of outrage and disbelief on it, but at least he was looking at Harry again.  
“So what? So _what_?! So what if I'm a disgusting half-breed, is that what you're saying?!”  
“Yes! Yes, that's what I'm saying! So you turn furry once a month, big deal!”  
Truthfully, he wasn't quite sure whether deliberately provoking Draco was the wisest course of action, but it was certainly something he was good at, unlike giving sage advice, and he didn't know what else to do to stop Draco from looking so... defeated. Draco Malfoy wasn't supposed to look like that. Draco Malfoy was supposed to be full of arrogance and confidence, to meet him face-to-face, head-to-head. Just as he found himself now, on his feet to meet Draco, who had jumped up and whirled on him, eyes narrowed in a ferocious glare.  
And then they had a glorious shouting match, the first since they had met again, and Draco called him a brainless Gryffindor, and Harry called him an egocentric brat, and it was wonderfully liberating after all their civilised, adult interactions for the past two weeks.  
Draco was looming over him, teeth bared in a snarl, his fingers knotted in Harry's collar.  
“Oh, is that supposed to scare me?” Harry taunted and smirked and made no move to defend himself. Draco's eyes flickered down to his mouth, and something in that heated gaze changed, and suddenly Harry was aware of how close they were, how little room there was between their bodies... close enough to touch, close enough to kiss.  
Draco blinked, the anger suddenly leaving his face, and took a step back, letting go of Harry's shirt. Awkwardness threatened for a moment as they stood facing each other on the rug in front of the fireplace, then Harry tried his hand at a smile.  
“Feel better?” he asked, voice as light as he could make it.  
Draco blinked again, frowned a little, and then snorted and ran a hand through his hair.  
“Yeah, yeah, actually I do.” He gave Harry an amused look. “You did that on purpose, didn't you?”  
“What, rile you up? Yes, I sort of did.” He grinned, and Draco rolled his eyes at him, and things were fine. Draco slumped onto the couch again, legs stretched out, and Harry took a seat next to him. “I meant what I said, though. You don't have to do this alone.”  
“Harry...”  
“Besides, I've already taken the day after the full moon off.”  
“You what?” Draco didn't look particular pleased. “Without talking to me? That sure I'll agree to whatever you want, are you?”  
Harry rolled his eyes. “Bill likes to get out for a run, too, you know? I keep telling you, not everything is about you. Besides, I'm long due for some time off, anyway.”  
Draco huffed, and crossed his arms, and glared. When Harry merely raised an eyebrow at him, he finally dropped the glare and slumped back into the sofa cushions.  
“Okay, okay, fine, I'll think about it, okay?”  
Harry grinned. “Great!”  
After a moment of silence, Draco said hesitantly: “There's something I've been wondering about...”  
“Yes?”  
“The last time... I woke up in my own bed, but I don't remember returning to the Manor. How did I get there?”  
Harry felt a blush rising as he remembered the circumstances of waking up that morning.  
“We all sort of fell asleep outside on the lawn. Bill and I woke up in the morning, but you were dead to the world, so we took you inside to your room.”  
Draco looked at him, blankly at first, then with an expression of dawning realization. The fact that, yes, he and Bill had seen Draco naked settled heavy and awkward between them, and Draco shifted uncomfortably.  
“Did you see it?” he asked abruptly.  
“See what?” Harry certainly had seen _something_...  
Draco pressed his lips together. “The scar.” His hand twitched towards his right side before he stilled it again in his lap. Harry found his eyes drawn towards the place over Draco's ribs where he had been bitten, confirming that he'd seen it even before he answered: “Yes. Yes, I did.”  
Draco looked away, as if he was more ashamed of the scar than anything else Harry could have seen... and knowing him, he probably was.  
“Draco...” Harry said. “We all have scars. You don't have to hide them.”  
“Oh, really?” Draco scoffed. “You're telling me you wouldn't rather hide that?” He nodded towards the faded scar on Harry's forehead. “That Bill wouldn't rather hide his?”  
“I meant from us!” Harry answered. “I meant, you don't have to hide it from Bill and me.”  
“Oh.” Draco shifted uncomfortably, then shrugged. “Whatever. What's for dinner?”  
Harry scowled, but Draco just stared back, and so he decided to allow the shift in topic.  
He got up from the couch again and collected his abandoned groceries to put them away in the kitchen, Draco following along. The lingering tension quickly dissipated when he started cooking while Draco sprawled himself into his chair at the dining table, turned sideways so he could talk to Harry... and stretch his legs right into his path so he almost fell over them on his way to get a cutting board. He grunted, caught himself on the counter, glared, and viciously kicked one booted ankle. Draco smirked, but obediently withdrew his legs somewhat.  
Gorgeous or not, the man was still a prat. Harry gave him another glare for good measure. Draco merely grinned, teeth flashing white. Aggravating Harry _always_ seemed to improve his mood, Merlin knew why.  
Halfway through the meal preparations, they got an owl from Bill informing them that he'd been held up and wouldn't make it home until much later, so they ended up eating dinner without him. Harry made sure, though, to save Bill something.

Bill stepped out of the fireplace to find Draco and his room mate on the couch, heads stuck together over a book. He smiled, a bit wistfully, at the picture they made. They were so opposite, dark-haired, down-to-earth Harry, always a little scruffy, and Draco, pure-blood breeding showing in every controlled motion, every elegant gesture, the careful curl of his smile, sleek blond hair perfect, yet there was something between them that made them complement each other, made them beautiful and fitting. For a moment, he wondered what it would be like to watch them kiss, watch them touch, and then he quickly clamped down on these thoughts as they sent a fierce flash of heat through his blood.  
Draco had made it clear enough that he wasn't interested, and Harry... he winced a little, internally. It was _Harry_ , for Merlin's sake! He couldn't... he wasn't supposed to lust after _Harry_.  
Harry, who looked up at him with a welcoming smile, that honest, friendly curl of lips that lit up his entire face. His glasses had slipped down his nose a little and Bill caught a glimpse of green eyes without the distraction of glass and frames before Harry pushed them back up again.  
“Your dinner's in the kitchen,” he informed Bill cheerfully, and Bill gladly took the opportunity to vacate the living room and Harry's presence for the moment after he exchanged a greeting with Draco. He left so swiftly that he missed the speculative glance Draco cast after him before turning back to Harry.

As the moon waxed from new towards full, Harry watched Draco's behaviour change. It wasn't anything very obvious. He just seemed to become more... demanding wasn't quite the word. More decisive, less willing to have things go any way but his, more... dominant.  
He kept teasing Harry, and Harry spent a lot of time in Draco's company in a state between fond exasperation and true annoyance. He had no idea why Draco had suddenly reverted back to his prattish teenage self, if with less venom, after they had gotten on so astonishingly well when all of this started. True, there was always a certain friction between them, a spark that threatened to explode into a collision of tempers.  
Since he had... well, died, and thereby gotten rid of the bit of Voldemort's soul inside of him, (Harry shuddered just thinking about it – it felt so _unclean_ ), not to mention left behind his teenage years, Harry found himself much more even-tempered, but there were still topics and issues that easily kindled his rage. Draco was really rather good at finding these sore spots, and as the full moon drew closer, less and less willing to back down on any matter, regardless how small.  
Even odder was the tension that suddenly seemed to crop up between Draco and Bill. Harry didn't really understand it, as both of them had been nothing but polite and amicable since their first dinner.  
Things came to something of a head the day before the full moon. Draco still hadn't definitely agreed on whether they were spending it together or whether he was going to lock himself into the Malfoy cellar, and Harry was trying to find a good moment to bring it up, when Bill Flooed in. He greeted Draco, clapped Harry on the shoulder... and then Draco was on his feet, faster and with more grace then Harry had ever seen a person move, and a growl was rumbling in his chest, his teeth bared. Harry felt Bill stiffen beside him, fingers tightening on his shoulder... and Draco seemed to realize what he was doing.  
He blushed furiously as his eyes widened and the growl died. He looked horrified.  
“Excuse me,” he choked out, and took a hurried step around the coffee table towards the fireplace. Harry sprang to his feet.  
“Wait!” he called. “Where are you going?”  
Draco looked at him over his shoulder, grey eyes dark with too much emotion.  
“Home. I'll see you the day after tomorrow. Unless you'd rather I didn't come over?”  
Suddenly, all the posturing of the last few days was gone, and Harry could see through to all the loneliness and insecurity Draco was so painfully trying to hide.  
“Of course you can come over!” Harry answered. “But what about tomorrow? And you don't have to go, Draco.”  
While Draco hesitated for a moment, Bill stepped around the other side of the coffee table, back towards the fireplace he had come from... close enough that he _could_ block Draco's retreat, even though he wasn't, at the moment.  
“Harry's right,” he said softly. “You don't have to go.”  
Draco turned towards him, his expression conflicted. “I... I'm not good company. I should go.”  
Bill smiled at him, a soft, gentle smile. “I told you before, that's not true. Stay, Draco. Please?” He held out his hand.  
Draco looked at Bill, looked at the fireplace, looked at Bill again. They shared a long look, one of mutual understanding, and Harry found himself on the outside of it. He had no idea what was going on, but Draco eventually stepped forward and clasped Bill's hand, not really a handshake, and nodded.  
“All right, then.” He took a deep breath. “I'm sorry, I don't know what came over me.”  
Bill grinned, and slowly released his hand. “I think it's called the full moon.”  
They all settled on the couch, Draco in the middle, and Harry noticed how exhausted he looked. It wasn't as bad as when they'd first seen him in the Manor, but there were shadows under his eyes and faint lines around his mouth.  
“What about tomorrow?” Harry asked quietly. “Are we going for a run? Please say yes, Draco!”  
“It's too dangerous, Harry,” Draco told him with a frown.  
“But you're taking Wolfsbane!” Harry argued. “And we'll go somewhere with no one around.”  
“It's still not safe! Oh, don't give me the big puppy-dog eyes, Potter! What's it to you, anyway?”  
“I almost never get to be in my animagus form, Draco! And you're the only one I have to play with. I hadn't had as much fun in ages as we had last full moon. Please say you'll come!” Harry didn't care that he was pleading, and he thought making it into a favour for _him_ might just be the way to go about this.  
“You can go run with Bill,” Draco argued.  
“But I can't! He can't keep up if I run full out, and I can't really play with him because I might just break bones.” He cast a look at Bill to make sure his friend wasn't insulted by this assessment. Bill just gave him a wry smile. “Please, Draco?”  
“Oh, all right, fine!” Draco finally agreed huffily. “We can go! But you _better_ make sure there's no one around!”  
“Brilliant!” Harry grinned, elated by Draco's concession, and his enthusiasm seemed to mellow Draco out a little, because he gave him a small smile back.

By the time he Flooed over to Potter's and Weasley's the next evening, Draco was cursing himself. What had he been _thinking_? Of course, the answer was obvious: He hadn't been. Potter had put his big green eyes to use, and all of Draco's rational facilities had promptly deserted him. And now he had agreed to this harebrained idea of spending the full moon outside. The worst part was that burning, panting eagerness inside of him that agreed with Potter and thought the prospect was brilliant – the werewolf part. Draco generally disagreed with that werewolf part on principle. It was the part of him that considered humans good eating, and tearing out throats a reasonable way to end an argument.  
Both Potter and Weasley were already there when he arrived, which meant they had to have taken some effort to get off work early, and Potter had already managed to whip up a quick dinner. Draco felt sick and sicker with the approach of the moon, clammy and feverish at the same time, his knees weak and his hands shaking ever so slightly. Odd twinges and aches shot through his body occasionally, and he could feel his mind fray, his rational thoughts a thin blanket over the roiling mass of violent impulses beneath. He really didn't want to ever experience what a full moon would be like without the Wolfsbane in his system.  
He ate his dinner quickly, and even Harry's almost-raw steak was nearly too well-done right now, and he didn't even try to touch the vegetables. The meat he could keep down, in fact, his body seemed to crave it, but the mere thought of eating anything else made him nauseous.  
He had just finished when he felt the moon rise, the first definite shiver of the transformation run through his bones. Weasley, who had been distracted and distant all evening, raised his head to look at the window, even though there was nothing to be seen yet between the roofs of Diagon Alley.  
Draco stumbled into the living room and closed the door behind him to have at least that much privacy, and hurriedly shrugged out of his robes, trousers and shoes. He barely managed, his hands clumsy and uncoordinated, and then it was all twisting, burning agony as his body ripped itself apart and reformed.

Harry and Bill entered the living room to find Draco panting on the floor, tongue lolling, front legs resting elegantly next to each other on the carpet even in wolf-form. He looked up at them with his dark amber eyes, and Harry crouched down to bring them more to a level.  
“Hey, Draco,” he greeted. “You okay? Ready to head out or do you need a moment?”  
Draco swept his tail leisurely from left to right and got to his feet, so Harry assumed that he was okay, and that he was ready to go.  
Side-along Apparating a werewolf was a bit awkward, and Bill finally settled on hugging Draco to his chest with one arm slung around his barrel, under his front legs. Draco wasn't very pleased by the lack of dignity, but suffered it with only a bit of a surly slant to his ears.  
They landed on a desolate hill somewhere in the Scottish Highlands. The wind was whistling through the heather, and there wasn't a village or town around for miles. The moon was still low, drenching the landscape in silver and shadow.  
Harry shivered in the cold night air, and quickly changed into his animagus form. Bill set Draco down, and the last impression of him Harry had for a little while was his casting of a warming charm over his clothes. Then Draco was on him, tackling him over the side of the hill, and they were rolling down the side amid a clutter of loose stones and broken twigs, wrestling each other all the way.  
Harry disentangled himself once they came to a stop at the bottom, and then took of with a challenging flash of his teeth at Draco.  
Like the full moon before, they chased each other and played all through the night, and it was just as exhilarating, just as much fun as the last time. In fact, it was even better, because Draco didn't show any of the reserve he had a month ago, and didn't take the fighting nearly as seriously, either. They pulled each other's ears and tails and ruffs, growled and snapped, but it was all in good fun. And when they took a break in between, bathing in the moon light and the scents of the night with Bill alongside, Draco flung out a careless front leg across Harry's shoulders and started smoothing his ruffled fur back down with his tongue. Harry closed his eyes, and rumbled a purr, and enjoyed the attention. Draco was equally appreciative when Bill experimentally reached out and started to scratch behind his ears. In fact, he looked so blissful that Harry had to try that, too, and Bill found himself sandwiched between two huge animals who demanded to be petted. He laughed, and obliged.  
They ran, the night air cold in their pelts, and they curled up all over each other, body warmth shared all around, hands and tongues distributing affection, and Draco found himself a few rabbits to chase, and all in all, Harry at least was having a wonderful time.  
This time, they made it back home before the moon sank, chilled and tired despite the exercise, and they all tumbled into Bill's bed, because it seemed the thing to do. Then they slept until far in the morning.

The first thing Draco noticed when he drifted up out of a deep, dreamless sleep was that he was warm, deliciously, wonderfully warm. He drifted along in a heavy, blissful haze for some unmeasurable amount of time, slipping in and out of sleep. He was so comfortable, and still so tired. Slowly, though, other sensations started to register. He wasn't alone, he realized. There was the sound of breathing, the feel of different fabrics against his skin, the unique heaviness that meant another body next to him. _Two_ bodies, actually, one on each side of him.  
Bill and Harry, he thought vaguely. Reluctantly, but unable to resist his curiosity, he pried his eyes open.  
He didn't know the room or the bed he was in, but there was a window in the wall opposite, and his gaze went out over a leaden sky and the silhouettes of what were unmistakeably Muggle buildings, so he figured this had to be Bill's room.  
The man himself was asleep next to him on his left, facing Draco, red hair a heavy, silky splash across the pillow and around his face. Draco could feel one of Bill's legs heavily tangled with his, and one muscular arm was resting loosely across the duvet, partly over Draco's ribs. For a moment, Draco studied that strong, handsome face, so close he could've counted the freckles over the bridge of Bill's nose, the hair that tempted him to touch, the milky skin of Bill's shoulder and the distinct tan line where his t-shirt habitually ended, the golden skin of his arm.  
He looked over his shoulder, which required a bit of uncomfortable straining, tangled as he was, to, yes, find Harry there, buried under the duvet, back pressed tightly against Draco's. Mostly, he could only make out a mop of black hair, but he could feel the heat of Harry's bare skin against his own where Harry's t-shirt had ridden up, and the press of the sole of one of Harry's feet against his calf. He felt an involuntary smile spread on his lips. Harry was just so damn _adorable_!  
With something like a pang he realized that they were both beautiful, and that he wanted them, and that he _could have them_.  
For the first time, he didn't feel like death warmed over after a full moon. Oh, sure, his muscles ached, his bones hurt, his skin felt too tight... but his mind was clear. For the first time in four months he felt like _himself_. For the first time he realized that, though his world might have ended, his life went on, that there might be a new world for him out there. Not the one he had envisioned for himself, but maybe something worthwhile none the less.  
He remembered this full moon, much more clearly than any of the others. Mostly, it was just impressions, images, emotions, the muffled memories of scents his human brain didn't have the capacity to understand, no words to describe, but he remembered the knowledge of what a scared rabbit smelled like, what Harry's fur smelled like and Bill's skin, the night wind and the heather, the fog and the stones. He remembered the broad, rough swipe of Harry's tongue across the bridge of his muzzle, unguarded feline affection, the nudge of a broad, black head under his chin in a demand at reciprocation. He remembered the mesmerizing touch of Bill's fingers, massaging strong circles into his fur, the stroke of a palm down his back. They touched him, touched his four-legged, furry, animal body, with no hesitation, he realized, with no fear or disgust. Harry provoked the bite of his monstrous, contagious teeth with no concern, played with him like he was a kitten and Draco nothing but a good-natured puppy. And Bill, even more vulnerable than Harry, without the protection of an animagus form, just laughed at their antics and ruffled their heads and lay beside them in the heather, skin to fur, joyous and fearless.  
For some reason, Draco's throat grew tight as he looked at the man sleeping next to him again, only the unblemished side of his face visible. He wanted them, wanted _this_ , wanted to see where it could go. Maybe it wouldn't work out, maybe it would all come crashing down in flames... but maybe it _would_ work, and why wouldn't that be worth it? Was he so afraid of being a bit more hurt than he already was that he didn't dare reach for something he wanted? Something that could be glorious beyond his wildest dreams? Here he was, with the opportunity to _have Harry Potter_! All his life, that man had been just ahead of him, untouchable, successful where Draco failed, luckier than any wizard had a right to be. All his life, Draco had felt second-best when he should have been best, pushed from his natural place by this man. And now here he was, in bed with the man so many craved a single glance, a single touch from, here he was, with Harry Potter offering himself to him. Why would he turn that down? It didn't hurt that the man was gorgeous as well as famous, and it certainly didn't hurt that Draco enjoyed his company. In fact, no matter how smug Draco felt at the mere thought of having Harry Potter as a lover, what he wanted was Harry. Just Harry, who'd suddenly inserted himself into his life again as if he had never left and refused to be pushed away, Harry, who somehow became his friend without Draco even noticing, Harry, who was so adorable and just such a fundamentally good person that he left Draco in something like bewildered awe; Harry, who, on the other hand, was dry and sarcastic and not naïve at all and who, for all his Gryffindorish-ness, would've made one damn fine Slytherin. And if Draco was smug at the thought of calling Harry Potter his lover, he was even more smug about calling Harry Potter his friend.  
And then there was Bill, and yes, he wanted Bill, too. Why settle for one gorgeous man if you could have two? And he might be a Weasley, but Draco felt a respect and admiration for him that he had rarely felt for anyone. Bill was charming, and engaging, and if he didn't stand on pure-blood protocol then it was because he didn't want to, not because he didn't know how to. At odd moments, Draco felt this connection, this realization that Bill was, like him, heir to an old pure-blood family, that, no matter how far the Weasleys had left behind these social circles and the political priorities, they still shared the same traditions, the same history. There might be a world between the Burrow and Malfoy Manor, but it was still closer than either of them was to Harry's Muggle upbringing.  
Draco felt his eyelids droop, sleep calling him back, and he relaxed back into that warmth. There was definitely something to be said for two bed mates.

He was alone when he woke up the next time, but he could smell food, and hear the soft clatter of plates and cutlery. He rolled out of bed to find his clothes neatly folded over the back of the desk chair across the room. He dressed, then cast a _tempus_ and discovered that it was half past two in the afternoon. No wonder he felt rather rested. He headed to the kitchen to find Harry and Bill there, talking softly as Harry prepared what looked like breakfast.  
They welcomed him with easy smiles and he sank down into what had become his chair at the table.  
“How are you feeling?” Harry asked as he expertly charmed the spatula to scramble the eggs.  
“Sore,” Draco allowed, “but otherwise fine.”  
Harry laughed. “That's what you get for tossing people down hills!” he complained good-naturedly.  
“Well,” Draco smirked, “what were you standing around there so temptingly for?”  
“Oh, so it's my fault?”  
“Of course it is,” Draco agreed blithely, and ducked under the swipe of the dish towel headed his way.  
“Do you two _ever_ stop?” Bill complained with a roll of his eyes and a barely-suppressed grin.  
“No!” they both answered at the same time. They shared a look and a grin while Bill continued to affect exasperation, and then they all got distracted by the food Harry levitated onto the table.  
“Pumpkin juice?” Draco asked in surprise as he saw the pitcher Harry put on the table next to the teapot.  
“It's seasonal,” Harry told him reasonably.  
Bill snorted. “You just love the stuff, whether it's seasonal or not.”  
Harry shrugged. “So what if I do? I don't force you to drink it if you don't like it.”  
He sounded a bit defensive, and Draco exchanged a look with Bill before reaching for the pitcher. “Well, I'll have some,” he announced and poured himself a glass.

A few hours later, he actually did head home for the evening, for the first time in a month. But he had been away for the entire day, and he thought he owed it to his parents to put in an appearance and assure them that all was well, and that he hadn't killed or mauled anyone the night before.  
He said his good-byes, and then, when he normally would have stepped back towards the fireplace, he instead leaned into Harry's personal space, caught the back of his neck in one hand, and kissed him, firm and decisive, while Harry was still blinking at him. That lasted only for a moment, though, and then he could feel Harry relax, all but melt into him, with the most delectable little noise in the back of his throat. He just barely resisted deepening the kiss, sliding his tongue between Harry's pliant lips and thoroughly taking advantage, and stepped back instead, in time to see Harry's eyes slide open again, astonished and a touch dazed. Before Harry had time to voice the question forming in his eyes, Draco turned to Bill, who was watching with surprise, and, Draco thought, a touch of dismay.  
Draco stepped up to him, and tension sparked into life between them as they stared into each other's eyes, a challenge on both sides. Draco narrowed his eyes, grabbed the front of Bill's shirt, and hauled him down the inch that separated them. Their lips met harshly, almost painfully, and Draco found the faintest growl rumbling in his chest and throat as he scraped his teeth over Bill's bottom lip. Bill returned the favour and they pulled away, breath harsh.  
They stared at each other a second longer, then Draco let go of Bill's shirt and stepped away. He grabbed a handful of Floo powder and tossed it down with a clear announcement of “Malfoy Manor!” The fire flashed green, and he turned to toss a smirk at the two men who were watching him with some confusion.  
“I'll see you tomorrow,” he informed them. “And the two of you might want to do something about all that sexual tension between you.”  
The last thing he saw before the green flames swallowed him was the rising blush on Harry's face and the flash of panic in Bill's eyes.

“So...” Harry said after Draco had been gone for a good long while, aware that his face was flaming, “that was unexpected?” He hadn't meant it as a question, but that was how it came out.  
Bill cleared his throat and ran a hand over his hair. “Yes, it... rather was.”  
“Does that mean he wants to date us after all...?”  
Bill looked at him, then looked away again quickly. “Yes. Yes, I think it does.”  
“Oh,” Harry said, and sat down on the couch, because his knees felt a little wobbly. He was more than a little confused by Draco's sudden behaviour, and much more than a little embarrassed by his last words, and it didn't help at all that there was some part of his brain that kept shrieking “Draco kissed me! Draco _kissed me_!” like a fourteen-year-old girl.  
“Yeah, oh,” Bill agreed, and sat down at the other end of the couch. He didn't look entirely steady, either. They shared a look, then Bill laughed somewhat weakly, and then he groaned “Oh, Merlin!” and buried his face in his hands.  
Harry blinked at him, then leaned his head back and threw his arm over his eyes himself. His face was burning, and despite his fervent wishes, it didn't feel like it was going to stop any time soon. God, did Draco _have_ to deliver that last parting shot? And then just _leave_?!  
“So...” Bill said after the silence had long passed awkward, “Harry?”  
Harry peeked out from under his arm to find Bill regarding him with discomfort evident in every line of his face and body, one leg up on the couch, both hands gripping his shin.  
“About what Draco said...?”  
Harry moaned, and hid behind his arm again. Maybe this conversation would be easier if he didn't look at the man who was his current best friend and, incidentally, his first-ever crush.  
“Yes?” he answered, voice muffled.  
“You know I...” 'Don't feel that way about you'? Yeah, Harry knew that. “...wouldn't ever take advantage of you like that, right?”  
“Wait, what?” Harry dropped his arm to stare at Bill. Bill met his eyes for a moment, then looked away, a blush staining his cheeks. (Which looked rather sexy, and which Harry couldn't remember ever seeing, but that wasn't the point right now.) “Taking advantage...? What are you talking about?”  
“Well...” Bill fidgeted, and blushed deeper. Then he finally looked at Harry, his expression pleading. “I might be attracted to you, but I know it's not appropriate, and you're my friend. I care for you, Harry, and I swear I wouldn't ever do anything to hurt you.”  
Harry blinked, dazed, as he was hit with the second curve-ball, emotionally speaking, in the past hour. He had no idea what Bill was on about being appropriate or not, but his brain was at the moment rather stuck on the first sentence.  
“You're attracted to me?” He sounded disbelieving to his own ears, and Bill winced, shoulders hunching a little.  
“Well, you're a very attractive man. But you don't have to worry!”  
Harry waved a hand as if that could dispel the confusion. “Wait, wait, let me get this straight.” Although there wasn't anything particularly _straight_ about the situation, now was there? Harry forced down a hysterical giggle and went on. “You're attracted to me, but you think that's not appropriate and I would for some reason freak out because you are? Why?”  
Bill looked rather miserable. “I'm ten years older than you, Harry, and trust me, I'm _very_ aware of the fact! You were my little brother's best friend. Merlin, I feel like such a pervert. I can still remember meeting you for the first time when you were this scrawny little fourteen-year old!”  
Whatever Harry had expected, that... wasn't it.  
“I'm the same age as Draco is,” he pointed out, he thought, very reasonably.  
“I _know_!” Bill cried. “But it's different. I didn't grow up with him!”  
True enough, but still...  
“I'm twenty-five, Bill. I'm an adult. What's more, I'm an _Auror_! Do you seriously think you could do anything to me I didn't want without one hell of a fight?!” Yes, he was getting a little angry here. “For God's sake, I faced down Voldemort and Death Eaters before I was even of age! And you think you need to protect me from _you_?! What the hell gave you that brainless idea?!”  
Bill blinked at him, and Harry was breathing hard and he realized he'd almost been shouting.  
“Harry...” Harry narrowed his eyes. “I just... I didn't want to give you the wrong impression.”  
“What, that you want to sleep with me? What the hell would be so terrible about that?”  
“I didn't want to risk our friendship,” Bill said quietly, and Harry deflated, because, wasn't that what he had been doing? He sighed.  
“I'm still old enough to make my own decisions, Bill,” he said quietly.  
Bill echoed his sigh. “I just hurt you, didn't I? I'm sorry. What did I say wrong?”  
“It's just...” Harry drew his legs up onto the couch, hugged his knees, and told the truth. “I thought you respected me more than that.”  
“What? Harry, I respect you.”  
“You just said you think of me as your little brother's fourteen-year old best friend!”  
“I don't! I said I _remember_ you like that, but that's not who you are _now_.”  
“Then what's so bad about being attracted to me?”  
Bill opened his mouth, closed it, blinked, and ran a hand over his hair. “I... I don't know,” he admitted. “It just... I suppose it's not really all that rational. I just feel like I shouldn't feel that way about you.”  
“Oh.” Harry rested his chin on his knees and turned his head to stare at the fire. Bill sighed again.  
“What did I say now?”  
“It's nothing,” Harry mumbled, and felt his blush returning.  
“Harry?” There was a definite note of warning in his name, and he winced.  
“Well,” he turned his head to look at Bill again and felt the heat in his cheeks increase, “I might have sort of lied a little when we had that conversation about which Weasley I wouldn't kick out of bed...”  
There was a pregnant pause. “Meaning...?”  
Harry buried his face in his knees, rather mortified. “God, Bill, you were the first man I ever had a crush on, okay?” he told his legs. “And yes, I grew out of it, mostly, and there's nothing wrong with Charlie, but, well... yeah,” he finished rather lamely and peeked out to see how Bill was taking the news.  
Bill seemed to be about as floored by his confession as he was by Bill's.  
“You had a crush on me?” he finally asked.  
Harry blushed more. “Yes, your little brother's scrawny fourteen-year old best friend had a crush on you from the moment he laid eyes on you.”  
“But... you didn't even know you were gay until a couple years ago...?”  
“So? I didn't know it was a crush, okay! I just knew that you were the coolest person I'd ever met, and, well... then it was back to school and all the Triwizard Tournament craziness started, and there was Cedric Diggory... but of course I assumed it was just admiration, and that I was supposed to feel something for girls. And Cho was pretty enough, in an aesthetic kind of way, so, no, I didn't figure it out until Ginny pointed it all out to me, which is pathetic, I know, but...”  
“Hush, Harry,” Bill interrupted his embarrassed and defensive flow of words with a small smile. “It's okay, I know it's confusing.”  
Harry settled down, and they studied each other for a silent little while.  
“So,” Bill said then, quietly, “I suppose that means Draco was on to something?”  
“It seems so, yes,” Harry agreed, and ran a hand through his hair. “Merlin, Bill, where is this going?”  
“If we're both with Draco, and he's with both of us... and if we're with each other... I think that would make it a threesome.”  
Harry stared at Bill and remembered all these awkward moments between them when this had started, this sense of possibilities he didn't quite dare think through. He bit his lip, and didn't miss the flick of Bill's eyes down to his mouth.  
“Bill?” he asked hesitantly.  
“Hm?”  
“Can I kiss you?”  
He saw Bill's blue eyes darken in the firelight and he held out a hand to Harry across the couch. Harry crawled over, and took it, and let Bill pull him close, his eyes fixed on Bill's face, the intensity in his eyes, the way his lips, generous and beautiful and somehow fundamentally masculine, parted. He leaned in, settling over Bill's legs, his right knee tucked between Bill's hip and the sofa cushion, Bill's arm wrapping around his waist, pulling him in, and all it took was a little tilt of his head, and their lips touched.  
It was warm, and lingering, and chaste, just the brush of lips on lips.  
Still, when they broke apart and Harry rested his head on Bill's shoulder, his heart was hammering furiously, and he could feel the answering thud of Bill's heart against his chest. Bill's hand rose to card through the hair at his nape, and Harry could feel his chin resting lightly on top of his head. He relaxed, and felt safe, and giddy, and happy, and scared out of his mind.  
Then Bill's stomach rumbled.  
For a moment, Harry tried to suppress it, but then he started laughing into Bill's shoulder, and Bill joined him, hugging him tightly.  
Harry climbed down off of Bill and the couch once they had both calmed down again and Bill had let him go.  
“So I guess I better get started on dinner, then,” Harry said, and grinned, and Bill grinned back ruefully.  
“I guess you better do.”  
They spent the rest of the evening in familiar routine, and left whatever new thing there was between them alone for the time being. If their smiles were a bit more charged with meaning, or Bill's occasional casual touches a bit less casual than usual, they both ignored it.  
Until, that was, they were both about to head to their respective beds.  
“Want to come sleep with me?” Bill asked, and Harry blinked. That... was a bit fast?  
“Not like that,” Bill protested, however, just a moment later, that fetching blush crawling across his cheeks again. “Just to sleep, I meant.”  
Harry wavered on the decision for another moment, then nodded and said “Okay.” Bill blinked in surprise, but held his bedroom door open in invitation, and Harry followed him back into the bed they had shared with Draco just that morning.  
They settled in, and, after another moment of hesitation, Harry curled up against Bill. An arm around his shoulder welcomed him, and he sighed in happy appreciation.  
“D'you think this was what Draco had in mind?” he mumbled sleepily, and felt Bill's chuckle vibrate through his chest.  
“With him, who knows? We can ask him tomorrow.”  
“Hm,” Harry said, and then he was asleep.

Timothy was rather disgruntled to find that he had to sleep by himself on the couch.

Finis


End file.
